


Book Two: What Makes a Monster

by HeadintheCloudsForever



Series: What Makes a Monster & What Makes a Man [2]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Menken/Schwartz/Parnell
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadintheCloudsForever/pseuds/HeadintheCloudsForever
Summary: Picking up immediately where Book One of What Makes a Monster: God Help the Outcasts, left off, Quasi and Madellaine are preparing to marry in an intimate ceremony with their closest friends in attendance, when the sudden arrival of the last surviving member of the Frollo family throws their newfound happiness into turmoil, while Esmeralda harbors a dark secret that puts a strain on her relationship with Captain Phoebus, and her friendships are tested. Rated T for teens.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda & Jehan Frollo, Phoebus de Châteaupers/Esméralda | Esmeralda, Quasimodo/Madellaine
Series: What Makes a Monster & What Makes a Man [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136483
Comments: 20
Kudos: 20





	1. Jehan's Jaundice

**Author's Note:**

> A few lovely fanfictions inspired this work, and that I drew inspiration from, to name a few, and are absolutely worth checking out if you are a HoND fan. Namely, the pieces in mind are "Foundling Child" by Renarde Rogue", and "The Jewess of Toledo," by Merrow_in_the_Barrow over on FanFiction.Net that I highly recommend checking out if you have free time. All are incredible authors and deserve to have their work recognized. Sadly, the first work is not finished and has been that way now for the last several years, but I do hope that the author will one day come back and finish it. If you are reading this message, Rogue, I hope that one day, you'll finish your lovely story!

**1**

**THE** night air was chilled as leaves softly rode the bitter Parisian breeze. The sky around plunged into ominous darkness, awakening only a precious few as the people of Paris slept soundly in their beds. A fortnight had passed, and the citizens of Paris no longer feared the war-torn streets, their hearts eased by the fact that fires were no longer plaguing their city, sleeping soundly with no cause or care for the only person left awake at this late hour of the night, when all others were asleep.

As newly chilled air moved against the clouds, a cloaked figure let her eyes rest for a moment, feeling the ambiance of the atmosphere around her, hearing the sweet sound of nothing else, save for the swaying boughs of the dark oak trees that lined the little village.

Her pale green irises were fixated on what was easily the tallest structure in all of the City of Lovers.

Notre Dame de Paris, the illustrious cathedral that you could see with relative ease, even from a distance. The first thing the young woman thought of was how vastly the cathedral looked at night, shrouded in shadow, intimidating, and imposing to all who looked upon it. It was the first thing the young Romani woman thought of when she first laid eyes upon it, her green eyes wide and round with shock as she swallowed down hard past a lump forming in her throat.

She did not feel right about this at all, coming here in the middle of the night, and especially without telling her husband. She was honestly surprised Phoebus hadn’t woken up the moment she slipped out of their marriage bed to come and meet her contact here, though if there was one thing she knew of her golden-haired soldier boy, it was that her new husband was a heavy sleeper.

As she stared up at the grand church in all her splendor, up at the towering buttresses and massive pillars of stone and parapets that seemed to plunge in a never-ending battle to see which could reach the top of the Kingdom of Heaven first, it haunted Esmeralda.

She nervously eyed the gargoyles, monsters in stone. What a mercy it must be, for a demon to be frozen like that, to have their rage and hatred erased, made still for all time. She wondered if it were a gift.

The gargoyles had faces that had never known the emotion of love or kindness or empathy and feared them, struggling against the light, craving the darkness.

In the air around her which was fragranced by the yew tree, Esmeralda couldn’t help but wonder if that was why they were cast out onto the church, to show the parishioners that came to worship God and His angels that there could be no guilt in killing the monsters of their seemingly endless nightmares, then.

 _But what about the monsters in our heads_? Esmeralda thought bitterly to herself, biting the wall of her mouth as she swallowed past a lump in her throat. One gargoyle statute, in particular, caught the young raven-haired woman’s curious eyes as she nervously lowered the hood of her cloak, as dawn’s first rays threatened to peek over the edge of the horizon, eyes bulging as if the hatred behind them that it held as it looked at Esmeralda de Chateaupers now, married woman that she was, was about to erupt forth from it.

Esmeralda stuck her tongue out at the cold stone beast. It was only made of stone. The creature could only inspire fear if she let it, and she wasn’t going to.

The sound of something scraping against stone caused her eardrums to perk up at the newfound noise.

Esmeralda slowly turned around to regard the new arrival, praying with all her might it was who she expected it to be, and her suspicions were proven correct when a man’s voice, smooth, melodious, rich, and deep, the kind of voice a man ought to have, the owner of said voice, rent the otherwise silent air, his profile turned slightly to the side, rendering it impossible for Esmeralda to make out any details of the towering cloaked man’s face, though she didn’t need to.

He spoke, his voice smooth and languid as he effortlessly strolled up the front steps of the cathedral, stopping where Esmeralda chose to sit on the front step, huddling deeper into her dark navy blue cloak for warmth from the elements of the bitter cold around.

“After what happened the _last_ time you and I met, La Esmeralda, I presumed that you were no longer interested in speaking with me, so imagine my _surprise_ when I heard old Pierre Gringoire in the tavern tonight mention your name in passing. Said you wanted me?”

The man held a slight teasing lilt to his otherwise smooth and seductive voice that Esmeralda didn’t appreciate, though it sent a tremor of fear down her back and made the fine hairs on her neck stand upright.

Esmeralda bristled, biting down on her bottom lip and huffing in indignation, and though the man could not see it, she folded her arms across her chest as she shot her new companion a look of daggers. “Spare me.”

Her words were apparently enough to elicit a response from the figure shrouded in shadow as he let out a dark little chuckle and merely copied Esmeralda’s movements, a little dramatic groan escaping his lips, wincing at the stiffness in his still-youthful joints, as he sat next to her on the topmost steps of Notre Dame.

“Are they _true_?” he asked, his voice escaping him in what Esmeralda could only describe as a low growl. “My—my son…did he…did he have a hand in… _that_?”

The man waved his hands wildly up towards the north and south bell towers where, Esmeralda sincerely hoped, her dear friends Quasi and Madellaine were sound asleep, untroubled by the battles of their dreamscapes yet to be won. She wished she had that same luxury, though she quickly gave her head a curt shake to fight against her sleeplessness that was catching up to her and returned her attention to her comrade.

“It was an _accident_ , monsieur, you—your son, my—my friend, Quasi, he tried to save the Judge, but the Judge slipped, and he fell. That’s _it_ ,” Esmeralda began, careful to mind her choice of words, knowing that anything she said further would surely only provoke him. She sighed when still, the man did not look at her.

As the man lowered the hood of his cloak, Esmeralda cautiously swiveled her head slowly to regard her companion with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked into the cold and listless eyes of a handsome man whom Esmeralda thought she’d had the impression that she would never see again and sighed.

“Milady,” he murmured with an incline of his head, his voice low and husky. “It’s good to see you.”

“Jehan.” Esmeralda couldn’t fight against the chill running down her spine as the handsome much-younger brother of Claude smiled at her in his admittedly disturbing way of his that left her unsettled.

Anxiety started to well deep within the confines of her chest. Yes, she had requested that she talk with him alone, but somehow, now that the two of them were actually here, sitting affront the very place where Jehan’s own wife and then his brother years later, had died, it made her feel uneasy and quite nauseous, then.

But she wanted proof of Claude Frollo’s younger brother’s intentions, and the moment she had got word from Clopin that the man had returned to Paris, she needed to know how she could use it to her advantage.

Also, she had to make sure that she, alongside Quasi and Madellaine, as those two were her primary concern and her reason for seeking an audience alone with Jehan, were going to need protection against him, as Clopin had suggested. She would face him bravely.

No matter what Jehan intended to do to her, she thought. However, he shouldn’t plan on harming her here in front of the cathedral unless the man wanted to face the rage of his own son, for Quasi considered her a dear friend, and the Archdeacon wouldn’t stand for this.

At least, she really _hoped_ that he shouldn’t.

“You came. Alone at last.” Again, Jehan turned his head to face her, and Esmeralda felt her heart speed up. A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her this had been a bad idea right from the very start, urging Esmeralda to bolt from the steps and flee, to head back home, rouse Phoebus from his sleep, and tell her new husband everything, and the danger Jehan’s return to Paris posed to their beloved friends, not to mention them as well, for sure, anyone that stood in Jehan’s way would suffer the consequences. She _knew_ that.

Oh, but God did she know. She had seen Jehan Frollo’s temper for herself, firsthand, a couple of years ago when she had found him lying nearly lifeless by a riverbank, stabbed in his side, wounded, and drunk.

One might make the argument that was it not for La Esmeralda’s compassion and kind heart, Claude Frollo’s younger brother would not be alive right now to be indulging in this little secret conversation of theirs. She could only hope that God, alongside her friends and Phoebus if they were to ever find out she had kept this a secret from them for so long, would find it within to forgive her, for she didn’t forgive herself.

But she was here. She needed to see it to the end, to make sure.

“I want to know _why_ you came back, Jehan,” Esmeralda murmured lowly, her voice calm and balanced. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but with your brother gone, there is nothing left for you here…And your son…he’s about to marry, he’s found a lovely woman with which to spend his life with. You should _leave_ ,” Esmeralda snapped, hardening her tone in an aggressive manner in the hopes to get her point across. “Discovering the truth and having _you_ in his life, in your…emotional state, will only seek to upset him. If you come near Quasi or his bride and even think about laying one finger on them, if you _hurt_ my friends…” Esmeralda paused, careful to choose her words in the hope he would heed her warning. “Then, with God as my witness, then you’re going to _wish_ that I’d left you on that riverbank to _die_ and you’d choked on the water in your lungs,” she growled in a threatening little tone.

But Jehan, it would seem, was not interested in listening to Esmeralda’s advice. She swore she heard the man growl as he continued to look at her in that way of his that didn’t fail to send a chill up and down her back.

“We’re a _family_ now.” He beamed and shot her a dazzlingly white, charming smile that was Esmeralda not married, she supposed would have made her feel weak at the knees, but instead, it only succeeded in making a coil in her gut twist and her stomach roll. “Are we not?” he murmured serenely, taking her hands in his and staring Esmeralda right through to her eyes.

Esmeralda cringed, thinking that the mannerisms Claude’s younger brother was adopting right now reminded her much of the fanatical Judge months ago.

She’d felt incredibly uneasy until the coldly observant gaze of Claude, but seeing it come from his handsome younger brother, Jehan, it was…uncomfortable, to say the least, on a different level. The coldness of his burning darkened eyes burnt with a horrible madness consumed by grief and pain, a madness that Esmeralda dreaded to see more of it now.

She bit down on her lip in the hopes of silencing the screaming warning bells chiming inside her mind, practically calling out to her to run away from this man.

But she could not. She emanated a tense exhale through her flaring nostrils and spoke to Jehan, realizing she’d not provided Claude’s brother with an answer yet. Esmeralda hoped her voice sounded relatively calm enough, though even she could detect the faint warbling crack and dip as her resolve slowly faltered.

“They have not _yet_ married,” Esmeralda patiently reminded Jehan, and she flinched as Jehan’s posture stiffened, a muscle in his jaw twitching and something dangerous flashing in his dark eyes as she made mention of Quasi and Madellaine’s wedding upcoming on…

 _Friday_ , the voice inside her head reminded her, causing her green eyes to go wide and round in shock.

A morbid flame appeared in Jehan Frollo’s gaze as he held Esmeralda’s stare, smiling widely back at her. The smile instantly slid off his face as he spoke up, shattering the silence, his heavy eyes glistening.

“They _won’t_ , young mademoiselle, I can almost personally assure you of that,” Jehan responded in a cold voice that almost sent her mind insane. Esmeralda gritted her teeth and repressed a shiver that the young Romani knew had nothing to do with the bloody cold whipping its way through Paris.

Esmeralda’s eyes widened as her already pale face drained of what little color was left as she looked at Jehan, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing.

“Wh—what are you _saying_? What are you…?” she started to ask, though his grasp on her hands tightened almost instantly the words were out of her mouth, she felt her breaths catching in her throat, but she did not want to give Frollo the satisfaction of letting the man see it.

She’d not been afraid of Claude, she was not about to be a coward in front of the man’s brother.

“It _hurts_ , Jehan. You’re _hurting_ me,” she snarled calmly, trying futilely to break from the man’s grasp.

Her body, against her mind’s orders, was very much afraid of the handsome but clearly deranged man. Though her mind was attempting to remain neutral as to what he was doing. Esmeralda felt she’d seen enough monsters in her life to feel indifferent. … _Right_? 

“Oh, I _know_ , my little belle.” Jehan smiled wickedly at Esmeralda, squeezing her slender fingers even tighter. Esmeralda had no idea what Claude’s brother was, what he was going to do to Quasi, or to Madellaine, but instinctively started wondering, if she screamed, would Quasi hear her? Would the Archdeacon come running or any of the guards? Would anyone come to her aid if she needed it? Would they just allow Jehan to kill her out here?

“It’s better when it hurts, little dove. Pain is good. Makes one a _man_. Or…for you…a _woman_ …but you don’t need me to tell you that do you, belle?” Jehan whispered, leaning forward to whisper it into the shell of her left ear, his teeth grazing her lobe slightly.

Her insides clenched as Jehan’s grip tightened, though the pain was only emanating from the man’s ironclad grip on her fingers, Esmeralda could feel it. Just the sheer thought of what Jehan would do to her caused her insides to revolt and she shivered in fear.

No, no, _no_ , it _wasn’t_ going to end like this, damn it. She’d survived her entire life out on the streets without being physically assaulted. She was still alive, still strong, had a loving husband at home waiting for her. She wasn’t going to let it happen to her. Not now.

But…what could she do to stop it from happening? Esmeralda met Jehan’s defiant gaze, determined to get away from him intact and in one piece at all costs.

“Let _go_ of my arm this instant. _Bastard_ ,” she hissed at him through gritted teeth. The man merely quirked a brow at her but loosened his grip enough in order to allow Esmeralda to free herself from him. Esmeralda parted her lips open to speak, though before she could, the door to the cathedral burst open, and every grip on her body subsided, leaving her limp.

It was a good thing she was already still seated on the frontmost step of the cathedral’s front steps, or Esmeralda surely would have fainted from her shock.

Something clattered on the ground next to her. Whatever it was, it was something silver and metallic, and Esmeralda almost blindly reached for it in a mad scramble, and she realized a small dagger had fallen from Jehan’s sheath as he rose to greet Captain Frederic.

“Captain,” he murmured in a courteous tone. Esmeralda could hear Frederic de Marten say something in response, though she felt like she was in a horrible trance, her heart racing so quickly she was afraid it might grow wings and fly out of her chest.

Her breaths were shallow, her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and her ears filled with the rush of blood.

Acting purely on survival instinct, Esmeralda hid the weapon up the sleeves of her dress, ignoring the shallow cut it made on her forearm on its way up. It was only when she felt confident enough her newfound weapon to defend herself was secure did she risk peeking over her shoulder to see what transpired.

It was not the Archdeacon, as she had been hoping but, but admittedly, a savior for her, regardless.

The newly appointed Captain of the King’s Archer’s, Captain Frederic de Marten, now stood in the open doorway of the wide oak double doors of the church, glaring at Claude Frollo’s brother in such a way that Esmeralda was sure could have killed him in a look.

Frederic did not seem quite as furious as a normal man ought to be, considering the seriousness and precarious position that Esmeralda had found herself in, though there was something different in the dark-haired soldier’s features, though what it was, she didn’t know.

Maybe it was Frederic’s fury or a silent sadness.

“Leave the young mademoiselle alone. _Leave_.” The case remained with his voice. His voice was calm, but somehow, more menacing than she ever remembered the soldier boy talking in the few interactions they did have with one another weeks ago.

Watching Claude Frollo’s brother’s face twist in a sickening sense of dread coupled with a wave of anger strangely brought Esmeralda a sick sense of delight and triumph.

Captain Frederic stepped forward, a gloved hand hovering over the hilt of his weapon in a warning way.

“Do I need to say it a _second_ time, monsieur? Please don’t make me say it a second time. I really _hate_ repeating myself,” he growled through his gritted teeth.

Jehan Frollo did not need to be told a second time, as it so happened. Though as he rose to his feet, calmly brushing his hands on the thick woolen fabric of his cloak, he cast a scathing look towards Esmeralda.

The smirk he shot her sent a chill down her bones. “Oh, if only your… _friends_ knew your dirty little _secret_ , La Esmeralda, but you aren't going to _tell_ either of them, _are_ you?” he taunted, his wide, Cheshire-Cat-like grin would haunt her nightmares and conscience for _weeks_.

Esmeralda’s face was so white by this point that she was quite sure she resembled that of a corpse. All that was missing was for her to be taken to the silent sisters for burial preparation. Black spots danced along the edges of her vision, and she did not see Jehan leave.

Their little encounter was over and yet, Esmeralda did not feel as though she’d set out what she accomplished to do. Everything in her seized in terror.

She could see and feel Captain Frederic coming closer, seeing the young man reach his hand to help her.

Esmeralda merely stared at his outstretched hand blankly for a while, unsure whether or not her legs would even hold her, unwilling to touch him right now. Not after what she had just narrowly escaped…

Phoebus’s right-hand man waited for a moment, then changed his approach and curled his fingers around her forearm and gingerly lifted Esmeralda on his own.

She shuddered involuntarily at the man’s touch, almost opposing it, though she knew Frederic wouldn’t hurt her, that deep down, the soldier was a good man.

Even more so since he had started taking an active interest in Madellaine’s older, but almost-identical looking sister, save for a change in their hair color, and was rumored to be pursuing Maria de Barreau instead.

“What in the seven bloody hells was he talking about? Your—your _secret_?” Frederic stammered, glowering after the spot where Jehan had stood moments ago, though quickly gave his head a curt shake to clear his mind and re-focused his attention on La Esmeralda. “You’re safe now, milady,” he stated, not bothering to look back inside him as he led her into the safety and sanctity of the church, closing the massive doors behind him. Esmeralda cringed, not wanting Frederic’s touch.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to go home to Phoebus and tell him everything, but she…

She couldn’t. _I can’t_ , she thought bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut and grinding her teeth in ire.

It would mean confessing to Phoebus the truth. That she and Jehan had once been lovers, before him.

Esmeralda gazed at Phoebus’s friend and close comrade and something of a confidante in his life, now that the two soldiers had been able to make amends with Frollo’s death, before collapsing into the chair that Captain Frederic steered her towards, his question sounding more stupid than before. No, she wasn’t fine!

Esmeralda almost snapped at the soldier in a moment of triteness before some small sense of reasoning came back to her mind. “Get a grip on yourself.” _Remember your plan. Just…stay calm._

Frederic furrowed his brows in a frown. “Are you all right, Esmeralda? Would you like me to escort you home? Does Phoebus even know you’re out here?” he questioned, suddenly sounding rightfully suspicious at seeing his now-former commander’s wife alone in Notre Dame. It was unusual for Esmeralda to be seen these days with the golden-haired Sun God at her side.

“No, I—I’m fine, I can… I can take myself,” Esmeralda murmured, a fiery heat scorching her cheeks as Frederic looked at her in silence for a moment. She tried and felt like she failed to showcase some small semblance of gratitude or relief, to force herself to summon the courage in which to thank Frederic, but her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She felt rattled.

Her body still shivered, the horror of the words Jehan Frollo had spoken to her, about ensuring that Quasi and Madellaine would not marry on Friday, ringing in her eardrums until it was almost deafening.

Thank God her eyes were dry, at least. She didn’t want Phoebus’s friend to witness her shedding tears.

The soldier’s trained eyes raked down the length of her arm, stopping short at the outline of the dagger slid up the sleeve of her dress. “You won’t be needing that, Esmeralda. I can assure you. He won’t bother you.” He reached out his hand, almost expectantly.

With great reluctance, Esmeralda pursed her lips together and gently withdrew the knife, handing it to Captain Frederic, watching with a horrible feeling of numbness as Frederic took the knife and latched it behind his belt expertly with swift and nimble fingers.

“Thank you, Captain,” Esmeralda said, at last, thinking it was the only thing she could manage to say. She didn’t know what Frederic’s motives so late in the hour were for helping her, much less why he was still up unless he was meant to be at his guard post, but still, he had saved her from Jehan’s anger, either way.

He acknowledged her thanks with a dip of his head, trying to convey with his eyes she didn’t need to.

“Whoever he was, he _won’t_ bother you again, mademoiselle. If the man is in Paris, my men will find him,” Frederic offered, observing Phoebus’s pretty wife.

Esmeralda almost scoffed and burst into tears.

“What will you do?” Her voice was strangely quiet, slightly shaking. She was quick to realize she still didn’t have much control over her limbs, as it was still very much in fight-or-flight mode.

“If I can find him, I _will_ talk with him, Esme.”

She snorted, finding it difficult to not roll her eyes. “And…you think…after what you saw outside, that talking will be enough? You don’t _know_ him.”

“But _you_ do?” Frederic shot back instantly, not missing a beat, causing the young woman to reel back in surprise and alarm, catching Esmeralda off-guard.

If it was at all possible, Esmeralda’s blush intensified as she shakily rose to her feet once her vision slowly but surely cleared. “I—you could say that, Captain Frederic, b—but that’s _not_ important,” she stammered hurriedly, wanting to steer the topic of conversation away from her and Jehan’s shared past and back towards the matter at hand. “I don’t know _how_ , but he told me that he…I can’t prove it, but I think he intends to hurt our friends. He doesn’t want to let Quasi get married on Friday. You should double your men.”

Frederic heaved a heavy sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “We will take it into consideration, mademoiselle, but as long as those two remain within the stone walls of the church, they cannot be touched. And with Claude gone, I highly doubt some…disgruntled man is going to hurt them, especially not the bell ringer. He’s… _strong_.”

This time, Esmeralda really _did_ roll her eyes at the mention of Quasimodo’s untold strength that almost rivaled that of a god, as she knew the man was referring to the breaking of his iron wrought chains the day she had almost burnt at the stake, but Quasi had saved her.

Frederic stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He was being polite about it, though she could sense their conversation was over by the way Captain Frederic’s gaze kept going to the door and then to her.

As Esmeralda reluctantly allowed Phoebus’s friend to escort her towards the front doors of the cathedral, resentment grew within her at the fact that Frederic did not seem to be taking this real threat seriously at all, though she did her absolute best to contain it and not let the man see.

She wasn’t even sure how to begin to tell Phoebus and Quasi and Madellaine the truth, either.

What on earth was she to say to them, even? That she and Jehan had once been lovers after she had saved the man’s life from his wounds and drowning? That she had caught wind of Claude’s brother’s arrival back to Paris and hadn’t told either one of them? To the best of her knowledge, she wasn’t even sure if Quasi himself was aware that Claude was in actuality, his uncle, of sorts, and that his ‘father’s’ brother, was in reality, _his_ father. It was a lot to take in.

And with his upcoming wedding, she did not want to put a damper on his good mood, but nor did she think that she could idly stand by and let it happen.

Whatever Claude’s brother wanted, it wasn’t good, and Frederic and his men needed to be prepared.

She sighed as the pair lingered by the doors for a moment. “Will you at _least_ double your men on their wedding day, Captain? If not for me, then for Phoebus? The man’s your friend. If I told _him_ what that man outside told _me_ , _Phoebus_ would take it seriously, Ser.”

Esmeralda knew from the moment the words left her mouth that they had hit their mark as Captain Frederic’s chest puffed out in slight indignation. She stifled a tiny chuckle and shook her head, swiping a raven curl out of her eyes as the man opened the door.

“ _Fine_. Ten men in the nave and two by each set of doors, front and back,” Frederic relented tiredly. He stared at her in silence for a moment, and Esmeralda held his gaze, trying to keep her feelings inside and not let Phoebus’s friend see her triumphant little smile. “I would suggest you go _home_ , Esmeralda, and _stay_ there, and _don't_ cause any more trouble.”

Esmeralda nodded with a slight incline of her head. “Thank you, Frederic. You won’t regret it.”

He shot her a pointed look and shook his head that suggested to her that Phoebus’s friend thought her request a strange one, and a waste of his men and resources, though since she was more or less a friend to him now, he would oblige her and see it through, then.

Frederic muttered a soft goodbye under his breath, shutting the doors gently behind him, and Esmeralda, not wanting to linger in the bitter cold, drew the hood of her cloak up around her, wanting to hurry home as soon as possible in the event Phoebus woke up.

As she walked, she could not shake the feeling of dread from crawling up and down her spine like a spider leaving a careful trail of silk that her friends were in danger, that no matter what, Jehan would make good on his threat, though in what way, she did not know.

But she had seen the unhinged look in the man’s eyes, that Jehan was not about to let his son marry. She could only hope that Frederic and his men would remain constant and vigilant the day of their wedding and not let anybody they didn’t recognize into the nave, at least during the ceremony, she prayed for it. Esmeralda was still mulling over this when she quietly slipped through the door of her home and had managed to maintain a solid ten minutes of peace before padding barefoot across the hardwood floor of their home and crossing the threshold into their bedroom, only to find Phoebus fully roused from his slumber and demanding to know where his wife had gotten off to.

She put on her most brave face and lied to Phoebus for the first time in her life since knowing her Sun God, that she had been here the whole time, and he must not have looked properly.


	2. Hello, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I don't know why, maybe I have a strong fixation on this actor lol, but whenever I watch the movie Gladiator as I did last night, I keep thinking what an awesome Jehan Frollo Jaoquin Phoenix would make in his younger years. I absolutely adored his portrayal as Commodus, so he's sort of who I modeled my version of Claude's younger brother after. He's handsome, charming, and knows how to play the role of a psychopath quite well. Anyways, enough rambling from me, on with the show! Hope you enjoy it, my lovely readers!

**Note: Ugh, I don't know why, maybe I have a strong fixation on this actor lol, but whenever I watch the movie Gladiator as I did last night, I keep thinking what an awesome Jehan Frollo Jaoquin Phoenix would make in his younger years. I absolutely adored his portrayal as Commodus, so he's sort of who I modeled my version of Claude's younger brother after. He's handsome, charming, and knows how to play the role of a psychopath quite well. Anyways, enough rambling from me, on with the show! Hope you enjoy it, my lovely readers!**

* * *

**2**

**JEHAN** had thought death was supposed to be painful. Then again, he was certain he was far away from any sweet, glorious Heaven that his brother, Claude, had always prattled on about, to the point (among other disagreements in their relationship) that it had driven Jehan away from him. Had now for several long years.

He seemed caught in a churning tide. All at once, he was brutally aware of the searing pain that tormented his broken body.

What…in the seven bloody hells had happened to him?

It was almost more than the broken thirty-five-year-old could bear. His muscles attempted to writhe in agony and couldn't. However, his aching bones refused to move and kept him firmly pinned in place…wherever here was for Jehan, waiting. Then he would succumb to his empty nothingness.

An encompassing void in which he ceased to exist. Then pain again, and once more, the darkness would take Frollo again.

Again, and again. He wanted to scream, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He _couldn't_. Perhaps this was Hell, no?

Jehan knew he more than deserved an eternity of such torture. He could abide it better so than the remorse he held when his Florika had left him, abandoned him when the wretch that slid bloody and out of her womb was… _deformed_ , misshapen. Incomplete. Only half-made. She'd been _horrified_.

It was more agreeable than the pain that shown upon her angelic face as she had pleaded with Jehan not to leave her as he had thought at the time, he was succumbing to the black fever.

The pain he felt now was more than welcome if it meant he wouldn't have to look into Florika's pleading eyes.

He could see them now if he looked hard enough. Piercing pools of pale green, like that of forest moss on the boughs of the trees.

Her eyes even now weren't filled with tears and anguish like they had been on the last night of her life, or at least when Jehan had last known his lovely wife was alive, but bright and happy as he remembered the night they'd lain together the moment the clan they'd traveled with had broken the jug the moment the two had sealed their union with words of love and a kiss, announcing their love was sure to last for a hundred years.

At that, Jehan Frollo wallowed in his misery, alone in the eternal darkness, aching for his wife. It was only Florika's memory that would be his eternal comfort, and still, the Frenchman considered himself fortunate. He'd never give her up.

He forced his mind to focus on the remembrance of her lips pressed against his, the heat emanating from the skin of their bodies as their souls mingled as their bodies became one, that Jehan could almost conjure his Florika in his mind, even now.

For the few precious moments, his mind would let him, he could enjoy his wife and imagine none of this had happened. Jehan surfaced from his haze of darkness once more, his thoughts filled with Florika. He wanted to float alongside the image of his lovely wife for all eternity if she would have him.

But he didn't stop. He continued to move upward, breaking from the mire that had started to physically hurt him.

His body felt like it was on fire as bits and pieces of last night slowly came back to him.

A soldier had cornered him in the tavern, angry beyond belief to learn that Jehan de Chevalier, as he had taken to calling himself during his travels, was actually Jehan de Frollo, and the man seemed to think that Jehan was responsible for the death of his young son under Claude's iron rule back in Paris, but the man could not have been more wrong.

Nevertheless, that hadn't stopped him from pulling out a knife during Jehan's drunken haze while he'd walked by the riverbank, wallowing in his misery, and drowning his sorrows, attempting to forget the utter mess that his life had turned into.

The worst part of all this was Florika's image slowly fading from his subconsciousness, leaving him alone, slipping through his arms, along with the feeling of her lips on his.

He wanted to scream and rage, from pain, heartache, and fear. What the hell was there then? If not the memory of Florika?

Suddenly, from nowhere, a face burned itself into his vision, along with a horribly, blinding white light. It was dim, almost like a lit torch or a lighted candle being thrust into his face, yet agonizing for Jehan, nonetheless. It almost blinded the poor man, who was silently hysterical at this point in his almost-death.

Everything felt weighted down on his broken body as he could feel a pair of surprisingly strong hands latch themselves around his shoulders and pulled, but…pulled him from where? Where was 'where'? Where was here? Where _was_ he?

The air around him, biting and cold, shocked Jehan's lungs as his mouth opened and he gasped for the taste of it. The force of the movement caused his eyes to snap open. The darkness around him was gone.

His chest heaved as his heart struggled to return to something that resembled minor normalcy again. He tried to wriggle his toes and fingers, but they wouldn't move, and every attempt to try sent explosions of white-hot pain flaring through Jehan's broken bones and battered bruised body.

Jehan cringed, shuddering as a cold chill wafted down his spine as he could feel the harsh metal of a dagger cutting around the material of his linen shirt, no doubt assessing the entry point where he had been stabbed. Then, he swore he could _her_ voice.

His Florika. Speaking to him. " _No_." Jehan's mind sought to try to understand how that could possibly be. Florika was gone. She'd fled from him almost the moment he had started to succumb to the fever, and he'd received word some months after his recovery that she had died, though no one would say how.

His lids could no longer stand the strain of remaining open as the blinding white light continued to be thrust into his face. Jehan felt a surprisingly warm and supple hand caress his cheek. He shuddered again, though this time, not with pain.

With pleasure. Her touch felt as he had remembered it.

" _It couldn't be_ ," is what he wanted to scream at her, though his voice lacked the strength. Florika could not be alive.

He could barely breathe. Jehan fought in vain to open his eyes, the effort very nearly sapping his body of all strength that was left. It was as if something of equal willpower warred within.

But he had to try to open his eyes. To know what it all meant. He finally was able to succeed, though his poor eyes' torture was met by the burning pain of the torch shoved in his face yet again while a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman hovered over him. His hoarse throat cried out against his Florika being here.

"That's it," Florika's voice sounded lower than usual, huskier, and he realized with a sinking heart it was not _her_.

_Not_ his wife. He tried to raise his arms to prop himself up from wherever he was to get a good look at this new she-stranger seemingly tending to his wound, but his body remained stubborn and motionless despite Jehan Frollo's most valiant efforts to do so.

"Fight it," came his savior's voice through the gloom. "Come back to us, monsieur," she cried from somewhere far away that Jehan could not see. Exhausted, he didn't think he could fight anymore.

Whoever this woman was, she must have saved his life, but he did not wish to be alive anymore.

This wench should have left him there to drown and _bleed_ , it would have most assuredly been better for him than _this_.

Jehan got a good look at the woman tending to him as his vision slowly but surely cleared. Whoever she was, she had long fingers, pink at the tips, slender and gentle and quite perfect.

She had a pale face, this she-stranger, this young mademoiselle, her cheeks flecked with pink, her luscious lips ripe for the kissing limned with warm red. Her hair was ebony, cascading in natural ringlets to just past the edges of her shoulders.

Though this woman was not his Florika, Jehan was still quick to admire. However, there was still a delirious part of his fevered mind that wished it _were_ his wife, and his tongue was no longer taking directions from his own mind. The words tumbled forth unchecked from his lips before he could try to stop himself.

"F…Florika?" he whispered in a low, throaty rasp. Inwardly, he cringed. His voice sounded hoarse from misuse.

"Lie _still_ ," she encouraged, a faint hint of steel throughout her voice that silently conveyed to Jehan he must obey her command, or he would surely regret it if he were to attempt to make a move against her. "You are _injured_. Almost drowned, monsieur. You're in no condition to move around just yet."

Jehan fell silent, feeling the young woman's slender fingers grasping around his own, unswerving. There was no time for Jehan to wonder at the unseen strength of the stranger's grip, or to fear that in his own intensity, he might break her fingers the moment he felt a rancid-smelling poultice applied to his wound.

His eyes squeezed shut as his face contorted in pain. Never before had he experienced such pain before in his life. His jaw clenched as he tasted the metallic tang of copper and iron on his tongue. It took no fool to tell him it was his blood. He'd bitten his own tongue to tamper down the scream.

In a fit of burning agony, somehow Jehan managed to summon the strength enough to grab a fistful of his dark hair, pulling on it to help ease the pain. Slowly, the burning in his side was fading away as his shaking hand released his locks in fear. Sweat trickled down the slope of Frollo's angular temples as slowly, his breathing regulated and went back to its rhythm.

As he did so, he could see the stranger eyeing him warily, as though afraid of how he would react as she drew closer to him. Jehan's breath seemed to stutter in his lungs before he let it go, feeling the tension melt in his body as he looked at the girl.

His breathing returned to normal and Jehan felt as if he could face the problem.

"You cannot be _her_ ," he whispered faintly, his words almost as the wind, and barely audible, little more than a whisper, watching as the dark-haired woman's pale green orbs went wide and round, brimming with wonder and shock and awe. He swallowed past a lump in his throat as visions of Florika flitted through his mind. "She is…far, _far_ away from me. She walks in starlight in another world, in a place where I cannot follow. She…she isn't here. She's not you. It was a dream…"

He allowed his voice to trail off as it cracked tiredly. Jehan was sure salty liquid would pour from his lids at any given moment, and he wasn't sure he could stop it from happening. The woman hesitated, brushing aside a lock of one of her raven curls out of her eyes and looking at him, cocking her head to the side and looking like a blind woman seeing the stars for the first time.

"Then…it is a _good_ dream, monsieur, is it not?" she challenged, her voice just as hushed and faint as his own were. At the woman's words, a new feeling worked its way through him, warm and welcoming, foreign though it was.

He'd not felt it since he'd first laid eyes on Florika, and unlike anything he had ever felt before, he welcomed it now with open arms like an old lover. In that moment, he found the young woman helping him to recover to be the most beautiful creature Jehan had ever had the blessing to behold in his sights.

Jehan drew in a sharp breath as the woman hovered over him, their fingers briefly touching. It took nearly all his strength, but he somehow managed to intertwine their fingers together.

"Do you…think she could have loved me?" Jehan murmured, his voice near desperation as he fought back a half-choked little sob.

"Yes." Just a one-word answer, but more than enough, enough to allow Claude Frollo's younger brother to relax into the dark void. He prayed his fading consciousness would end his sorrow. He wanted no more of it. None of it. As precious sleep found Jehan Frollo once more, under the watchful and vigilant eye of the young woman who had saved his life by the riverbank, he asked the only question that meant anything to him anymore.

"Your name?" he sighed, before slipping asleep. He was not awake to hear the young woman whisper her name in response.

"Esmeralda."

* * *

**JEHAN** awoke from the memory the morning after his little encounter with his old flame, his dark eyes half-opened, mouth half agape. He didn't shudder or cry out loud but lifted his head almost sanguinely. He'd left himself to slumber in a room in an inn he'd taken up residence in on the outskirts of Reams, his wine goblet now scattered on the hardwood floor just above where his fingers had dropped it.

He rose from his chair as his feet lazily uncrossed above the table, running the various parchment papers and old correspondence the man had been pouring over before falling asleep. He let out a grunt, carrying his numb body to sit up.

He sat there for God only knew how long, his stomach churning at the thought of his own damned bastard son had been the one behind his brother's murder.

_Accident be damned_ , he thought bitterly, clenching his teeth. _My ass. My son killed him. I know it_.

Jehan shuddered, hating the headaches that came after he drank himself to sleep most nights these days. He stood with groggy steps as he neared the pitcher at the edge of his window. He immediately took hold of it and splashed the water on his face. The cold relief was shocking and unimaginable for a minute as he stood at the windowsill, his teeth chattering from it.

Jehan let out a haggard sigh as the burning in his cheeks subsided. The beads of water tumbled along his growing stubble, and he remembered not having shaved his face in a couple of days.

And then he thought of his brother's _bride_. Madellaine de Barreau.

The youngest daughter of ex-military commander, Lucien Barreau, if memory serves.

He'd heard the name mentioned in passing several times from Claude in their last few letters exchanged. His neck stung with the heat at just the mention of her name. He'd caught sight of the petite little blonde in the graveyard, still recollecting how the long hem of her dress whipped in the wind, as did her blonde hair, her short strands wild and disheveled.

_Free_. As he himself wished to be free of this hell of his life.

When she had touched his shoulder, then his hand to offer some small semblance of her condolences over his brother's death, it might as well have been her touching him between his legs for all he cared, and the moment she had retreated her hand away, he ached for it to return to him, not able to explain away the peace wallowing in his soul and he'd almost thrown a temper tantrum.

But he managed to refrain himself, keeping her scent of honeysuckle, pinewood, and apples on the spot of his palm where her skin had touched his, and it almost sent Jehan's mind insane.

Jehan's ears perked up at the faint sound of a soft pair of footfalls coming down the hallway. His brows furrowed into a frown as the familiar scent that now lingered on his palm was coming back to his senses again, this time in massive waves.

He inhaled as he turned towards the doorway.

And then he heard the young pretty little belle's voice that very nearly made him jump right out of his skin. His son's bride. Barreau's youngest daughter. Madellaine de Barreau, the _woman_ he'd been fantasizing a mere breath and an eyeblink ago, was just outside Jehan's _door_.

Jehan winced as he felt his legs move towards the door of their own volition, no longer taking commands from his mind. His heartbeat thrummed erratically against its cage of bone and cartilage, now little more than a throbbing mass of corded muscle.

He didn't want to see the young blonde rose again, he knew. It was useless. He…he _wanted_ her and knew that he was going to have to do something about her planned wedding night in order to assuage his need. He was still working on that part, as it so happened, but for right now, he wanted to catch a glimpse of _her_.

"I need to—oh, excuse me, monsieur, I—I didn't…" Jehan looked up as he could hear Barreau's young daughter sigh in fear.

He figured she was attempting to call out to the master of the house, the innkeeper who had swiftly walked away from the girl, unable to take notice of or pay any mind to the young blonde.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Barreau turn on the heels of her brown leather boots to leave him, seemingly drawn by a woman screaming a floor above her, in search of what, he didn't know, but then she paused, rendering Jehan frozen to the spot. _Damn_ , he thought through gritted teeth. The wench probably saw the door just now and was stricken with an insatiable curiosity.

_Don't. don't come. Do not_. Jehan prayed to God if He would even have the grace to listen to a bastard like Jehan Frollo.

But it was no use. He heard Madellaine's soft footsteps, the heels of her brown leather boots echoing on the hardwood floor. Jehan swallowed down hard past a lump in his throat and stepped back, anticipating what was going to happen next, and he was right.

The door to the room he occupied was nudged open ajar even further by the crook of Madellaine's elbow, and as its hinges creaked, it hid the sound of Jehan's movement as he hid behind it. The golden blonde tones, butterscotch in hue, of Madellaine Barreau's neat and precise short blonde hair were the first thing he saw.

Her hair was slightly shaggy, cut in layers, and framed her oval face nicely in stray wisps and strands. He often wondered why girls and women wasted time on their hair of all things, and he commended Madellaine for being practical and keeping hers short.

Easier to keep out of the way, and if he was being completely honest with himself, it suited the young woman.

It highlighted her oval facial structure, high cheekbones, and good jawline, her delicately shaped and arched eyebrows bringing attention to those pale blue orbs that held Jehan captive with just one solid stare. Her hair was beautiful, but then again, everything about his sweet Madellaine was.

She was dressed in a simple white short-sleeved blouse with capped sleeves and a dark green overdress, looking tired but still just as pretty as the sunrise.

Jehan bit the wall of his cheek and turned his head to the side as he noticed Madellaine's sharp pale blue eyes do a quick scan of the room.

_You're mine. Oh, you're mine. You came for me…_

He was so engrossed in thinking about how God was good to him, truly, in sending him Madellaine this morn to have a word with him, that he hardly became aware of closing the door behind him as he stepped out from behind the shadows.

Poor Madellaine practically jumped out of her skin, startled at the heavy thud of the door clicking into place, and even more startled as to who was behind it, though she quickly molded her pretty little face into a mask of perfect indifference, a skill she must have learned from someone lately.

_Probably Esmeralda_ , he thought meanly as he moved to stand in front of the now-closed door, silently praying that the old fart of an innkeeper wasn't going to return to check on his progress anytime soon. The door was sealed shut, and Jehan Frollo its guardian.

He saw the blood rapidly drain from Madellaine's face as she no doubts took in the look of lust and fascination shimmering as unshed, glistening moisture in his dark brown eyes, making Madellaine Barreau even paler than normal.

"You came. Hello again, belle," he breathed, hearing himself speak in a voice that sounded grating and rougher than usual, and slightly course. "How _kind_ of you to visit me."

Madellaine pursed her lips into a thin line, frowning. She glanced at the door over her shoulder in a fit of nervousness. "I—I, er, didn't know you would be here, monsieur. I…I got lost." Her soft, shy, timid voice was faint, almost a whisper.

He almost laughed at her. He could not help but marvel at how his lovely Madellaine de Barreau could be so timid at just the mere sight of him, how much more when he'd move inside her.

" _Lost_?" Jehan chuckled. "How can you be _lost_ , milady? The inn isn't very big." Jehan did something he had never done before but always wanted to. He gently put his arms behind him, careful not to have them lunge towards her without any prior notice or warning to her on his part. He did not want to frighten her or scare Madellaine away.

Madellaine breathed in and wet her lips with an almost dried out tongue, Jehan noticed, not even knowing how it only stoked the fire ravishing between Jehan's legs. They were but a foot away now, and this was perhaps the closest he had ever been to her, and Madellaine Barreau was even _more_ pretty up close.

"I um, didn't know you'd be here, monsieur. I'm sorry to interrupt you, and for the other day in the…graveyard, sir. You seem… _distracted_ …" Madellaine whispered, pointedly turning her back on Jehan and turned silently hysterical as she reached with slightly shaking fingers for her satchel, intent on slipping it over her shoulder and making a beeline straight for the only exit.

Jehan furrowed his thick, dark brows, noticing the hint of unease that lingered in her shy, sweet tone, moving her hand to cover hers, gently lowering it and resting it at her side, preventing her from getting her bag.

He felt eerily calm and resolute while in Madellaine de Barreau's presence, and he doubted that either one of them could explain away the foreign sense of peace that started wallowing in the pit of his black heart and soul.

Jehan clucked his tongue as his hand drifted over the top of Madellaine's, noticing how it shook like a leaf at her side.

"Your little hands are like _ice_ , Barreau. So _cold_. Allow me to keep them warm for you, little dear." He relished the smooth sensation of the skin of her palm against his as their fingers entwined, sending a tremor of delight down his spine.

Jehan could hear Madellaine's ragged and spasmodic breaths as they quickened, though the good feeling welling deep within him promptly ended the moment Madellaine jerked her hand away and retreated back into herself, as though the very touch of his hand in hers burned her. Her cheeks were flushed high and pink with color, her blue eyes burning bright with anger and yet placid at the same time.

Jehan resisted his urge to roar like an enraged dragon as he looked away in frustration, grinding his teeth in annoyance, balling his fists in anger.

Was he really _that_ despicable to her? Jehan parted his lips slightly to speak, though before Madellaine granted him the opportunity, she spoke up first, shattering the awkward tension and silence between the two of them.

"Well, I—if you want nothing of me, then I guess I'll go. I—I got _lost_ attempting to find Captain Frederic de Marten…I apologize for having disturbed your morning, monsieur, I...I'm sorry, I...h-have to _go_."

And as she made a move to head towards the door, every single inch of Jehan protested. He wanted nothing more than to have a fit, throw a temper tantrum like he did when was a toddler, a young boy. Not even two seconds ago, he had almost been in heaven.

As close to heaven as someone cursed like him could come.

When he was around Barreau, he felt apathetic with everything that haunted and tormented him, and now his only ticket to that place was slinging her satchel's strap over her shoulder as she plucked it up off the table and heading towards the door.

_Abandoning_ him. Jehan gritted his teeth in his growing rancor as his anger churned in the pit of his stomach like a hot fire-seed. He could not let her leave just yet.

And Jehan knew he could not let that happen. Quickly, his dark brown eyes narrowed, and he locked the girl in his sights, and formed a triangle with the edge of the table and his arms, with sweet, succulent, tiny waif-like little Madellaine now well trapped inside of it.

His knuckles were white-boned and practically shaking with the effort to restrain himself as his hands gripped onto the edge of the wood. His front hip rested against the back of her right thigh, and the tiny gasp of surprise that she gave out sent a fiery warmth to his chest.

The fine hairs on the back of Madellaine Barreau's neck stood up, and the poor woman was practically quaking where she stood at the feel of Jehan's face on her hair as he buried his nose in her short blonde hair that framed her face in stray wisps and strands.

Her lips quivered and she bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to bleed, along with her shoulders starting to shake, the shaking spell causing a fresh bout of tears to glisten and form at Madellaine's eyelids' edges.

"No need to leave yet," he pleaded, surprised at the genuine urgency of his request. "You just _got_ here, Barreau. Don't you want to spend time with me? Do you not know who I _am_ , little dove? Claude was my _brother_ , little belle, we're about to be family, you and I. Don't you think we should get to _know_ one another..." he murmured. He whispered his words and inhaled on a strand of her blonde hair, sticking his nose on the back of her slender, swanlike neck, and slowly made his way from the beautiful curve and shell of her ear to her collar.

Jehan watched as recognition slowly dawned on her pale and pristine features, her eyes growing wide in horror and shock as her mind struggled to process the information she had just be told, though Jehan was fixated on the girl's strangely intoxicating scent.

To him, she smelled like apples. Of autumn and happier times, and he felt as though he simply could not get enough of it, of _her_.

He took in Madellaine's scent selfishly, wishing he could steal one of the vials from the apothecary's shop next door and bottle up her scent and warmth, and keep it for himself. Jehan had desperately trying to tame himself, to resist the call of Barreau's irresistible urge, though this time, he shoved it away with a muttered curse under his breath.

She was here with him, he was here with her, and the entire world was _theirs_ if only she would see sense and not marry his wretched abomination of a bastard son.

Jehan heard Madellaine draw in a shaking breath as she fought to suppress a sob that threatened escape by biting down on her lip as one of Jehan's hands wafted up to her waist and drifted over her collarbones. Her chest was practically thrumming with fear and exhilaration at his touch. It felt like music to his skin and set the fire burning in his chest and other places even higher.

Jehan traced the concave of her waist with delicate caresses, the pads of his fingertips ghosting over the material of her dress, his lips hovering dangerously close to the shell of Madellaine's ear.

"My son does not _deserve_ a girl like you. You're so beautiful. So delicate," he murmured. _And I want you here. Right now…_

"You…your son? You're…Quasi's _father_? I thought...his parents were _dead_ ," she squeaked, her words escaping her as a breathy little squeak, her eyes widening in fear and disbelief. "I…" she stammered out, but her voice trailed off as she struggled to find her voice. "H..how are you _alive_?" Madellaine managed to gasp out in a feeble and weak voice that almost startled him the moment his hand settled around the pale column of her throat threateningly.

She had no reason to be afraid now. His grip tightened as he prevented her escape, pinning both his hands on either side of her hips, and it was at this very moment that he battled with his body the most, still desperately resisting Madellaine's aura.

Jehan's hold on her waist tightened, and Jehan swore he almost heard himself growl with the effort to restrain himself from acting on his urges. She was _taken_ , she was his son's, this was all wrong. He did not want her in this way if he was going to have to force it. He wanted his sweet little dove to come to him willingly.

Madellaine Barreau was too sweet and naïve for her own bloody good. He wanted to save her, to take her away from the wretch, give her the life full of spoils and wonderment that he knew the girl deserved.

Barreau was as fragile as a dove. But Jehan was also able to recognize the girl's courage, almost unfounded in a woman.

Madellaine slowly lifted her chin and her gaze and met Jehan's inquisitive, curious eyes, looking at him with defiant pale orbs of blue as he lifted his hand and slowly grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. Jehan heard Madellaine let out a tiny gasp at the intimacy of the gesture, and her pale cheek had turned rosy and had gone rather warm. Jehan felt a strange, sudden urge to continue his absentminded almost affectionate caressing of her, even though Madellaine de Barreau probably would have resisted his efforts.

_Strange_ , he thought, furrowing his dark eyebrows in contemplation. He usually had no interest in such affectionate gestures, but then again, this was what Madellaine did to him.

Managing to control himself, albeit while grinding his teeth with the effort to do so, he allowed his hand to slide off before stepping backward. He heard Madellaine sigh audibly with relief before leaning back against the table, and it was then that something within him snapped. It was probably to do with the simple little face that his sweet, lovely Madellaine had not felt what _he_ had felt just then.

He hated it. Grinding his molars together, Jehan stared at Madellaine bitterly. He had been nothing but kind to her thus far.

Was he truly, really _that_ despicable to her? Blinking, he glanced upwards towards the open door of the bedroom, and suddenly, he realized who he was. He did not need to think of Madellaine Barreau's feelings, much less care about manners where she was concerned. It hurt like hell.

Jehan felt something dark and truly festering and ugly rise within the pit of his stomach and spread seeping its poisonous venom into his chest.

He moved with lightning speed to entrap her again, and this time, Jehan did not bother to restrain himself as he grabbed onto her wrist and slammed Madellaine up against the cold wall of the room, effectively preventing the blonde from leaving his side again.

Jehan grabbed the young woman's jaw roughly and tilted it upwards, forcing his Madellaine to look at him. He didn't give a damn anymore.

Let Barreau think of him what she would, as long as he got what he wanted. Jehan felt her tremble and as he stared into those bewitching pale orbs of blue, her pleading, warm eyes, Jehan surprisingly felt the worst of his rancor and jealousy towards his own flesh and blood bastard son dissipate and his ironclad vice grip on Madellaine's delicate little bird-like wrist slackened.

Jehan had not anticipated Madellaine's resistance because no woman, save for Madellaine had ever rejected him before, and he considered her a challenge. And Jehan was _never_ one to shy away from challenges. For some reason, Madellaine Barreau did not see what most Parisians did when they looked at him. This strange material of beauty looked past his family's wealth and status and saw the man within him.

And it became clear to him that, judging by the shimmering glistening moisture of fear in her burning bright blue eyes, the emotion that he knew to be fear, that she saw him now as nothing more than a _monster_. And of course, she was bloody well right in that regard.

"Do you believe in _love_ , wench?" he murmured lowly, feeling moisture in his eyes as he stifled a low growl forming within his chest. Madellaine, who had been squirming within his grasp, now stood frozen in fear on the spot as she craned her neck upwards to look him in the eyes.

She was staring at him again as she had done the other night when he'd first encountered her in the graveyard when he'd looked at her so intensely.

That look of curiosity, of _awe_ …

Jehan did not know where _that_ question had come from, out of the blue and into the void like that, as he rested his chin on her shoulder. Whatever her answer would be would help him cease the wildfire, this madness burning between his legs and within his slender chest.

"Yes."

And it was then that the fiery heat and overwhelming ache between his legs subsided and he surrendered, feeling a shift within himself give way as he relinquished her from his grip, letting her leave.

Madellaine exhaled a shaking breath of relief, perceiving he'd had a change of heart in letting her go.

" _Leave_ ," Jehan blurted out in defeat.

Madellaine moved away from Jehan, grabbing her bag, and decided to risk one last glance over her shoulder to see Jehan Frollo for the last time, before ducking her head to continue her path towards the door.

The sound of Barreau's fading footsteps equaled the quenching of his joy, Jehan decided, and when she pulled the door open, he called to her.

"Barreau."

Madellaine paused midway from completely abandoning Jehan in the room and silently waited for Jehan's want of her. She couldn't make out the details of his face from this distance, for his back was still turned towards her and Jehan turned his head a quarter of an inch so Madellaine could only see the side of his face and profile, his dark brown eyes downcast towards the cold hardwood beneath his boots.

" _Don't_."

She gaped, blinking owlishly at the man, her hand hovering over the doorknob, her other hand curled over the strap of her brown leather backpack, fully prepared to pelt Jehan with her bag if he laid another hand on her without her permission again.

"What?" she breathed; her voice shy.

"Don't believe in it. _Love_ ," Jehan answered hoarsely, rather quiet.

Poor Madellaine was utterly gobsmacked, flabbergasted at his response. "Why not?" she stammered, her fingers curling tightly into a protective fist around the strap of her bag as she quirked a brow at him.

Jehan blearily lifted his chin and forced himself to meet her gaze, almost able to read her mind, though no mind reader or fortune teller was he, not like Esmeralda was. That there was significantly less truth in what he said.

The world around them was cruel because it was devoid of love, of kindness. But that wasn't the case for Barreau.

Madellaine, to the best of his knowledge, had grown up in a house utterly surrounded by the concept. Jehan knew that, to his sweet Madellaine, love was not a figment of imagination, a phantasm.

It was real, but isolated, though he had never believed in it, for Claude was perhaps the only one who had ever cared for him.

_I don't have it. I never did, and I don't know if I ever will. But I want it. With you_.

"Because love is _stupid_ and it does not exist, Madellaine. And…I don't have it," he whispered hoarsely, hearing the warbling note of sadness in his voice. Without even seeing Madellaine, he felt her piercing glacier blue stare practically burning a hole in the right side of his skull. Unable to resist the calling of Madellaine Barreau's aura, perhaps against his better judgment, Jehan looked, and immediately wished he hadn't.

There it was again. That insatiable look of curiosity… Jehan could hardly stand it. Suddenly, he wished for nothing more than for Madellaine to disappear from this room entirely and not look at him, not as he was at present, a complete and utter mess, and over her.

"Did you not hear me?" he barked angrily. " _Leave_!" he roared, looking down at the ground beneath his shoes and causing poor Madellaine to let out a pained gasp of surprise and shirk away from him in utter fear. She did not need to be told a third time.

Quickly ducking out of the room, Lucien Barreau's daughter fled the second floor of the inn to continue her mad search for Captain Frederic de Marten.

Jehan did not see Madellaine leave. He did not want to look. It was telling enough that the intoxicating smell of apples from the marketplace and scented rosewater she used that was slowly fading, leaving his senses, that Madellaine was gone.

He growled angrily and looked at both of his hands, calloused, as he filled his palms with the image of her sweet, charming, kind face. Her ocean-blue eyes staring up at Jehan with wide adoration. He would be more than happy if those eyes were looking at him and _only_ him, but then he questioned if there would come a day when she even would, and he gnashed his teeth together in anger as he thought of his bastard wretch of a son.

Jehan decided he needed to give the boy he found in the streets his first night in Paris, Zephyr, a task. He needed to know where Madellaine Barreau is, what she did during her spare time, and the people other than her husband and La Esmeralda she socialized with. He needed reassurance Barreau's daughter would be his, until the wedding at least.

The wedding he could _not_ let happen. Even if he had to kill his own son to prevent it.


	3. I Can't Tell Him

**3**

**MADELLAINE** shivered in revulsion as she stood outside of the inn, having finally found Frederic and didn’t bother waiting for the soldier to come out. The shock at seeing the soldier and her own sister locked in an intimate embrace was entirely too much and considering how flustered she was feeling from her encounter with Frollo’s brother had her having a hand over her racing heart, still struggling to believe what had just happened.

“He’s…Quasi’s _father_ , but…but _how_ …” she whispered, horrified, her blue eyes wide and round with shock as she clamped a hand over her mouth, biting down on her nails. A nervous habit whenever the girl needed to think about something particularly troublesome or exciting.

“I thought…he was _dead_ ,” she whispered again, her voice a hoarse croak as she began the walk back to the cathedral, wracking her brain for what she was going to tell Quasi, if she should even tell him this at all. The man was, like it or not, claiming to be his father, and she thought her future-husband had the right to know the truth, but, but… there was the awful way he had _looked_ at her.

_No_! Madellaine forced her mind to grind to a halt, stopping dead in the middle of the bustling cobblestone streets and almost barreling over the baker in the process, shooting old Jacques an apologetic look as she knelt to help pick up the basket of baguette loaves she’d almost fumbled, mumbling an apology under her breath.

“Oh, I—I’m sorry, monsieur, I wasn’t watching my steps.”

“Hush yourself, lass!” the baker hissed sharply through gritted teeth, silencing the young woman’s apologies almost instantaneously, though it did not stop Madellaine from shooting the local baker, a furtive guilty look, holding out the last baguette loaf to him with slightly shaking fingers.

The baker looked at the bread in the young blonde woman’s hand for a moment and then shook his head, realizing the young woman had meant him no harm.

“Keep it, girl. You’re skin and bones as you are. You and the boy need to eat more. Tell your future husband to come by more often. The lad’s a hero, he saved our people. He should be proud. And you two don’t pay here,” he added, a hint of steel laced throughout his unusually stern voice as the baker noticed Madellaine fumble inside her satchel to hand over a farthing.

She felt a fiery heat creep to her cheeks. “Oh, b—but this entirely too much, Jacques, monsieur, please let us pay you for it!”

“ _Take_ the _bread_ ,” he insisted, and there was a note of finality bordering in his otherwise cross voice that told Madellaine she would do no good to argue with the baker, as his mind was made up. “you’ve already apologized. The bread is fine. _Take_ it, _keep_ it, and _enjoy_ it, and I expect the two of you to stop by more often.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Madellaine sighed, still ashamed over the fact that once again, she’d allowed her mind to wander, and as a consequence, failed to pay attention to her surroundings.

Quasi, and to a lesser extent, Phoebus, and Esmeralda, were jokingly telling her to mind her steps, though Quasi didn’t seem to mind catching her whenever she fell. Truth be told, there was a part of her that was of the mind that thought her soon-to-be husband secretly _enjoyed_ it, catching her when she stumbled.

It made him feel like a _hero_. But Madellaine wished her love could see it for himself, that in her eyes, the man already was one.

Seeing the strange tinge of melancholia in the beautiful blonde’s face gave the baker a start as Jacques felt his hardened exterior soften and melt, and the baker did not bother to quell back the tiny smile that tugged the corners of his mouth upward in a grin.

“Truly, lass. It’s quite all right. I’m sorry I was well, short with you,” he chuckled, waving a hand to Madellaine’s tiny stature.

She was quite short, maybe around 5’2 on a good day, and easily was dwarfed by most of the men here in Paris, though especially her husband, with the tip of her slender little nose barely coming up to her love’s broad chest, not much by way of height.

The giggle escaped from Madellaine’s lips before she could stop herself as she fumbled with the strap of her satchel, wrapping the baguette loaf in a cloth and before Jacques could protest, slipped a single farthing into the pocket of his apron, much to the baker’s chagrin as his face mottled and turned crimson in outrage.

Though Madellaine ducked out from underneath his outstretched arm and scurried away before Jacques could even think of returning the coin the young woman had slipped him. She waited until she was a good distance away from the baker and the man’s shouts had died down until they lingered with the rest of the vendors, screaming out offers at the tops of their lungs in the hopes of attracting potential customers to their stalls.

Madellaine walked purposefully and steadily through the winding cobblestoned streets of Paris, hellbent on reaching Notre Dame before Quasimodo would have to ring for morning Mass. She marveled at how quickly the city had been repaired after the destruction and devastation left in the wake of Frollo’s death, and—

_You’re doing it again_! Her conscience screamed at her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, grinding her teeth. She would not allow herself to think of Claude. The pair of them had said goodbye to the Judge when he was buried. Dead and gone from their lives, or so Madellaine had been led to believe it.

_And now this_ …

She willed her mind to think of nothing as she walked, her slender fingers winding tightly around the strap of her satchel for support, careful not to jostle her bag at her side in case she accidentally broke the divine smelling bread loaf whose good smells were wafting from inside her bag and into her nostrils.

Madellaine paused when she reached the front of the massive, illustrious cathedral that, even after all this time, didn’t hesitate to steal her breath away, as it was doing to her right now. Her lungs felt starved for breath, gasping in the fresh oxygen around her, but it burned them with its purity and cleanliness. Her chest heaved, and before she knew it, a stray tear slipped down her lid. Madellaine blinked with utter disbelief as the clarity filled her mind.

“Oh, _god_ …” she whispered, horrified.

If she were to ever move on with her life, she now understood what it was that she needed to do. She had to tell him. But that did not mean the conversation was going to be an easy one to be had. There was no telling how Quasi would react. He was sure to be upset. Perhaps even _furious_.

Madellaine stood in front of the wide oak double doors of the cathedral, as still as a statue.

Unable even to manage to get a good breath in, her eyes studied the ground beneath her boots. She felt as though somehow, she should not be the one to have to tell him this, but something within her locked away and sealed the idea, rooted it in her mind that she was perhaps the only _one_ who could tell Quasi.

Her heartbeat wildly against her chest. What… _was_ that?

She shakily knit her fingers together as she tried to calm down by forcing herself to breathe slowly in and out, but to no avail, then.

Madellaine closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against her wrists.

She attempted to forget that whole incident in the inn but couldn’t erase the sight of Quasi’s father from her mind. His eyes…A piercing dark, rich, umber, and cold. Though Madellaine de Barreau had eyes and could see like anyone else blessed with the gift of sight, that didn’t mean she rightly trusted what she saw.

If there was one thing that she’d learned over the last six months, it was that appearances could easily deceive you. While Madellaine was a young woman who never put much stock in appearances, even she could not deny that he was most likely not made of the same flesh and blood as most humans. His dark hair, thick and lustrous, a Roman-like jaw, and a strong, discerning brow, Jehan Frollo looked almost like an angel, an ethereal sort.

Well, _almost_. Madellaine had been able to find no warmth in the man’s rich brown eyes, which had stared at her in the inn of his room with such a horrible contempt and disgust that she was sure the man’s rented bedroom had instantly become colder, dropping ten degrees.

Madellaine swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat, not wanting to linger on the way Quasi’s father had been eyeing her, his gaze raking over her slender petite form and lingering longer than she would have liked than was appropriate.

There was that moment when he’d caressed her cheek and had lent his surprisingly warm and supple hand against her skin was a startling subtlety and a tenderness, much like a lover would do. Madellaine exhaled a shaking breath and opened her eyes.

What on earth had _that_ been about? He’d looked bewildered when she had answered his query when Jehan had asked her if she had believed in love. Why he’d looked hurt, Madellaine de Barreau had no idea, but it made her feel uneasy.

Thankfully, Frollo had stepped off after that, had relinquished his grip upon her, and had let her go free. Maybe Quasi’s father had recognized her discomfort. It was hard to say.

Shivering, Madellaine clutched herself as she remembered the way he had looked at his, his dark brown eyes almost blackening right before her eyes, how a muscle in his strong jawline had twitched, his eyes glittering with anger and horrible, cold fury.

That was perhaps the first moment in her adult life that she had truly become frightened, at least that she could remember. Madellaine had always thought growing up, that she was a strong and resilient young woman. She’d never felt scared of another man before, not even the Judge when he’d been alive.

But…she could _sense_ it. There was something _dangerous_ about her lover’s father, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he seemed a powerful aristocrat these days, and she nothing but a soon-to-be bell ringer’s wife, not that she’d have it any other way.

It was all too much for Madellaine’s frazzled mind to process it, but one thing was clear. To find out that Quasi’s father was still alive after all these years was not what she’d been expecting when she volunteered to go and bring back Frederic this morning. Today had started out so well, and now… _this_ happened.

The way he had looked at her, the pain and unspoken torment ridden on his handsome but lined face, the likes of which Madellaine had thought she’d never seen in another man before.

She sighed and shuffled up the front steps reluctantly, each step that dragged her forward felt like a chunk of stone in place of where her foot ought to have been, then. She would not know it herself, but her deduction on Jehan Frollo was one few throughout the man’s life that anyone had ever dared to make, except for those precious few in his life who knew him best. Even Esmeralda.

Madellaine had the rare ability to be able to see past the exterior surface of a person and into the inner worlds of the people around her. She had achieved something that nobody else ever had. She’d gotten the upper hand on Jehan Frollo, and her little surprise encounter in the inn this morning was about to have major consequences, beyond anything Madellaine could ever imagine.

Madellaine fought the tears that stung at her eyes, looking back once over her shoulder with a pained, fleeting expression.

Oh, but God, she was really going to _hate_ this.

Exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, she blew out a deep breath of air and wrenched open the door of the cathedral, smart enough not to look back. As she climbed the winding stairwell that led up to the north bell tower loft, her heartbeats thrummed erratically in her chest.

Wanting something to quell the shaking in her hands, as she kicked open the small wooden door with her boot, she reached into her satchel for the bread that the baker had given her minutes ago.

The moment a creaky floorboard beneath her boot creaked, she flinched involuntarily, a nervous expression on her pretty face.

Almost instantly, her betrothed’s magnificent voice rang out from beyond her line of sight, which on a good day, would normally have made her feel weak at the knees, and her heart gives a little palpitate flutter, but right now, it only made her feel sick.

“Madellaine? Is that you?” His smooth, languid, tenor-like tones still reverberated from all corners of their massive tower loft.

“Y—yes,” she whispered, not bothering to raise her voice as she dared to take a cautious step further in the tower, sliding the strap of her satchel off her shoulder and plunking it to the floor.

She stifled a tiny groan that threatened to escape past her lips as she heard the unmistakable light thump of the man’s boots hitting against the solid hardwood floor, coming from behind her. Madellaine flinched as he came up swiftly behind her, almost like a phantasm, and snaked his arms around her waist, resting his chin in the crook of her right and bruised shoulder.

As tense as her body was becoming, she allowed herself to relax a little, the tension in her shoulders slowly dissipating and melting off her like water over rocks as he pressed his lips to her cheek, looking at the bread loaf she’d brought home with interest.

A shy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Eat with me, love?” he questioned, his grin widening at the exact moment the words left his lips, his hands drifted and settled on the flat of her stomach, almost at the moment Madellaine felt her stomach give off a low grumble, reminding her she’d not broken her fast yet this morning, as Phoebus had demanded Frederic be brought back.

A beat passed before his fiancée shifted in his embrace to meet his gaze. Madellaine remained silent, her demeanor pensive and solemn for some reason. Assuming his love was too polite to refuse his request if she wasn’t hungry, Quasi was about to dismiss the idea, but as he drew in a breath to speak his mind, she spoke.

“I’d love to.” She squirmed out of his embrace and wound her fingers around his, a tiny smile flitting across her features, though it wasn’t enough to fight back a coil in his gut to twist and lurch, as Quasi realized her bright white smile did not reach her blue eyes. The light in her cerulean blue irises had dimmed as if snuffed out by candleflame. Her demeanor was somber, grim, yet lax.

Something was wrong with his beloved, he could sense it as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood upright on end, but he did not want to pressure Madellaine into talking if she was not ready.

As she led the way out onto the balcony and collapsed against the wall, she sighed as the two worked their way through the loaf of bread, Madellaine sitting with her legs tucked underneath her and one hand on the railing. Though the girl was quite comfortable where they were, she didn’t want to look down.

The fact that Madellaine was having trouble meeting his gaze did nothing to ease the horrible, churning knots in his stomach. He was scared for her, he did not like to see her like this. They stayed silent for God only knew how long as he watched Madellaine nurse her bite of bread, seeming to take comfort into shredding the last couple of bites and feeding the rest to a flock of nearby eagerly waiting pigeons.

The wind had picked up and blew his red bangs off his forehead with a tickling tenderness. Finally, Madellaine spoke after another long silence.

“I…ran into someone this morning, sweetheart. Someone that…claims to know you, Quasi,” she murmured, her left hand drifting to rest on top of his thigh, her fingernails raking through the material of his hosen. “I…” She began, her voice cracking. Madellaine looked timid, she was unsure of where to begin.

Quasi wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms and carry back into the warmth of their tower, to lay with her and shower her with love and affection if it would but make her smile again.

But he forced himself to remain calm, though the look on his love’s sweet face physically hurt him as she swiveled her head to reluctantly meet his gaze. Her blue irises were red and glossy, cracked at the edges. Madellaine looked on the verge of a hysterical mental breakdown, and he did not know what to do.

Quasi scooted a fraction of an inch closer and allowed his left hand to settle overtop of hers that was still resting on his thigh.

He was trying as hard as he possibly could to maintain the respectful boundaries that Victor, Hugo, and Laverne had coached him about this morning after Madellaine had left the tower to head out, though given they were to be married on Friday, he wished for nothing more than for his fiancée to open up and share what ailed her, so that he could help figure out a solution for how to fix this.

“A—are you hurt?” Quasi asked, fearing for the worst.

She pointedly shook her head no. “N—no,” she stammered in a low, breathy squeak. “I…it’s…it’s…” But her voice cracked.

Madellaine straightened, exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, her expression hardening as she tried to mask the note of bitterness that she wanted so desperately to put far from herself.

Though it was increasingly difficult as visions of Claude’s brother’s handsome younger brother’s face flitted through the confines of her tormented mind as she was wracked in agony over whether or not to tell him the truth of who she had run into today.

Quasi shifted his position, and it dawned on him as he looked deep into his love’s eyes, that something was horribly _wrong_.

“Madellaine…” he began awkwardly, having to turn his head to the side to clear his throat to tamper down the lump that was forming, feeling like it was causing his sore throat to hollow.

He felt a greater sense of urgency at the moment in declaring to his beloved that no matter what had happened, he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was right here where he was sitting. That he wasn’t anywhere else but right beside her, and he never would be. “H—has something…happened, sweetheart?”

“I…I don’t know where to begin,” Madellaine said eventually, still not looking at him, but instead out at the city.

Her downcast eyes were brimming with a horrible sense of shame that Quasi did not know where this emotion had come from. He let out a sigh, leaning his elbows on his folded legs, and gingerly took both of her hands in his gloved ones and squeezed.

“Start from wherever you want, love. I’m listening. What is it that you _know_? Who did you meet? I—I’d like to know the _truth_.”

He paused, feeling so unsure of himself as he gazed at her in worry and concern, because perhaps for the first time seeing meeting the young woman and falling madly in love with her, his Lena looked away from him. This was not a promising sign at all.

Madellaine turned her head sharply away from him, a muscle in her jaw twitching, keeping whatever expression she currently wore on her face out of his line of sight, away from Quasi. After a heavy, uncomfortable silence that lingered in the air between the two of them, Madellaine finally regained her voice.

“It’s _nothing_ , darling. N—nothing you need to trouble yourself over worrying. I thought I…met someone who claimed to know you, but I…I hope I’m wrong. He is not important, Quasi.”

Quasi blinked owlishly at his betrothed, hardly daring to believe his ears. It was not his sweet Lena’s soft, quiet, faint voice.

Yes, she may have formed the words and spoken them, but her tone was not right. It was listless, flat, devoid of any emotion at all. He furrowed his brows in a deep frown of worry and anxiety.

Madellaine swallowed as out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of sudden anger in Quasi’s darkening blue irises.

This was getting dangerous. Fast. Sensing Quasi was about to part his lips open to speak, she whiplashed her head sharply upwards and turned at the waist to better look him in the eyes.

“It’s nothing to worry about, love,” she retorted sharply, meeting her affianced’ s darkening gaze of anger and concern head-on. She drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs, willing her mind to try to convince herself that what she was doing by choosing not to disclose the truth of the stranger whom she met in the inn today was actually his father was for the best, that she was keeping her love safe and hopefully this way, he wouldn’t get hurt.

Her fists balled tightly against her despair, her chest heaving for calmness, and when Madellaine exhaled a shuddering breath and lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly, forcing herself to meet the man's gaze, Madellaine immediately froze.

His face was partially turned from her, so that she could only see the man's side profile, looking at her from the corner of his right eye.

As he sanguinely lifted his head and tilted it to the right slightly, allowing the young woman to get a better look at the expression pulling the skin around the man's jagged pink and red scars that littered the man's face taut around his brow, battle wounds from when Frollo had been in his life, she flinched, thinking that his light blue eyes almost seemed… _darker_ right now.

A thick lock of the man's red hair, having been freshly trimmed, probably courtesy of Sister Alice downstairs, or maybe even Esmeralda, if Madellaine had to hazard a guess, fell in front of his eyes, shielding the hurt that was plain as day within his eyes from the young woman, wounding her more than anything.

His shoulders slumped forward and the moment he did that, it was as if the bell ringer had created a wall between them, and Madellaine felt her heart plummet to the pit of her churning stomach and the witch felt as if she were going to be sick.

"Quasi, then, I—I don't mean to…to do this to you, I just…" Madellaine began, hearing the faltering crack and dip in her voice as she reached out a gentle hand to place upon the man's shoulder and give it a light, reassuring squeeze, hoping to convey to the professor that she did not intend to wound him like this.

Though before she could, it was as if the man held within himself the sixth sense, she couldn't tell, but he sidestepped her and bolted back inside the tower loft, disappearing into the shadows and out of Madellaine’s line of sight before she could even blink.

Madellaine’s left hand was now left suspended in midair that Quasimodo’s shoulder had only just resided in, then.

She swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat, feeling bitter acidic bile rising in her throat and all she wanted to do was stomp her foot and scream. Good Lord above, help her, could she do _nothing_ right?!

What had she _done_?

Madellaine gritted her teeth together in frustration and did the only thing her body would allow her to do. Using the cold stone wall as a support brace, her hands behind to support herself, she gingerly lowered herself to the floor and let out a sigh of defeat, and buried her head in her knees, pulling her legs close to her chest.

" _Damn_ ," she swore, hissing the word through gritted teeth and locked jaw. A heavy hand found its way back to her face.

The poor woman was practically hysterical at this point.

She had, for better or worse, scared him away. This _had_ to be some kind of a record. Her lungs burned as the biting air of the cold thrashed in and out of Madellaine at a speed, the young woman could simply not control, though not for lack of trying. The thundering of her heart rattling against its cage of cartilage and bone numbed her chest. She was sure slick tears would slip from her lids at any second.

Madellaine tried in vain to swallow hard and fight down the salty liquid, preventing its escape, not wanting anyone to see her cry, should the Archdeacon or Alice or God help her, Esmeralda sees her cry like this. Her hand fell limply to her side and suddenly, she wished she could just cut off the offending limb. She doubted she'd feel a thing. And now, there would be no chance of fixing what she had done just now.

Fighting the bitter tears that stung and pricked at the corners of her vision, she battled them. She had cried enough; she wasn't about to do it again! Her lungs, starved for breath, gasped in oxygen but it burned them with its purity as her chest heaved and fought to regain sweet, precious air to her lungs.

_I—I'm so sorry, Quasi. Please…forgive me, sweetheart._

_I’m sorry…_


	4. A Piece of Advice

**4**

**HE** wasn’t sure how it could get much worse than this. Everything was laced with the biting feeling of a horrible cold. Everything in his bell towers, especially the south one since he rarely frequented it, always made him feel rather uneasy, filling his broad chest with a horrible constrictive feeling that right now, left Quasi breathless.

Quasi thought it strange how the bell towers could look so formidable, even after all that he and now he supposed, Madellaine, had done to make the place feel more at home. Dozens of knick-knacks littered the walls, and the stained glass mobiles he’d hung provided light and color whenever the sun would reflect just right.

Quasi rose a shaking hand to one of his tired eyes and rubbed it slowly over the surface of his rough, cracked skin. A scattered sigh escaped his tired lips. Quasi couldn’t manage to repress the almost violent shudder that clawed its way up to his spine and through his heart at how Madellaine had reacted just now.

He felt his heart sink, hoping his beloved would have opened up to him, despite how cold he had acted towards her just now, but he wished she could have waited for him to sort through his wild emotions and conflicting thoughts.

It had only been a fortnight since Frollo’s death, and he supposed, he thought guiltily, that he was still having a difficult time processing his feelings. And yet, Quasimodo did not think he could go back out to the balcony terrace and face his Lena just yet.

But why? Why was he so _stupid_? Why had he not just listened to what she had to say?

Why had he run off on her like that? B _ecause I was a coward,_ Quasimodo thought bitterly to himself, grinding his teeth in anger.

The thought of leaving the woman who he was to marry in another couple of days, unable to forget the look of abject disappointment and hurt etched on her pretty features as he had abandoned her flashed in his vivid memory, burning him, searing his insides hotter than any branding iron could ever leave a mark.

The recollection of her smile up until he’d foolishly turned the tables on their conversation and had ruined everything danced in the back of his troubled mind. Quasi ground his teeth in agitation and resisted the urge to let the demon within him growl in frustration as he stalked and restlessly paced the interior of the south tower, not sure why he had come here in the first damn place, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands as he attempted to understand Madellaine’s reaction towards whatever had happened to her today.

She said that she had met someone this morning. A coil in his gut twisted and churned, giving a painful lurch as he sincerely hoped it wasn’t another _man_.

A _normal_ man. Just the thought of either was enough to inspire a hot rage churning in his belly, and he swore he tasted bile at the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, wanting to rid his mind of the horrid images, feeling his anger and rage slowly subside as a new thought began to enter his mind.

The young red-haired bell ringer furrowed his eyebrows in contemplation and shot out a hand on the wall, clutching at a wooden rafter beam for support as he froze, feeling numb and rooted to the spot as he stopped to think for a moment.

Quasi knew he had never suffered from such problems before, before Madellaine had come into his life. Partly because no woman, save for her, thanks to the monster he knew himself to be, would ever look upon his face and find it attractive. But she had…

He had always been aware of his position in society, thanks to Master Frollo’s teachings, aware of those who looked at him with disdain and scorn, particularly after the traumatizing events of the Feast of Fools. A shudder went down his back at the memory.

No matter how much he regretted the cold way he had spoken to her just now when she had refused to let him in on what was bothering her, he could never reverse what he had allowed happening. Part of him was strangely grateful that she had, just now, looked upon him with scorn for his uncharacteristically cold and hurt words, as though he were the very devil himself, no worse than that of his own former master.

In truth, Madellaine was _wrong_ to think of him in those terms, but Quasi had been simply too stunned to react rationally regarding her behavior about him.

Madellaine’s serene pale blue-gray orbs drenched his memory, and damn the man for having a good one. He never would have imagined a woman could invoke these foreign feelings that created a tingling, spiraling warmth in his chest, and yet, here he stood in the south bell tower loft, not sure what he was doing down here at all. Broken, scarred, beaten down more times than he cared to admit, but still very much feeling. Of course, these feelings were new, but they still held a familiar yet foreign sense to them, like a distant fond memory he wished to keep.

However, something within Quasi still fought against these feelings. These feelings were light and breathless and underneath it all, there was something dark stirring within him, that 'wrong' feeling. A heavy hand found its way back to his face as in a fit of agitation he pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes tightly shut trying to drown out the snakelike voice in his head that sounded like _him_. Master's voice, casting doubts on Madellaine's character, filling his mind with horrible thoughts that she would leave him.

"No!" Quasi heard his cracking voice erupted from his chest, throat, and lips as though it would be the only silencer to the wicked voices inside of his mind. His shallow breathing worsened as the moments down in this dank, cold tower loft passed.

"Y—you're wrong, I—I'm…hap…" But his voice trailed off as it broke and he curled his hands into fists, striking out at the wall behind him. That was his _first_ mistake. It hurt like hell and Quasi ground his teeth together so hard that he felt his molars lock and snap, as he squeezed his eyes shut, a stray tear of pain escaping down his lids in the process, cradling his sore hand.

More than anything, he wanted another human being to be _kind_ to him for once in his life, someone other than his Lena, Phoebus, and Esmeralda, but they were scarce, considering how most, when they looked upon his visage, was barely able to stomach being in the same room with him, much less look him in the eyes and hold a conversation longer than five minutes.

Quasi furrowed his brows in a frown, giving his head a violent shake to clear it. The poor man was practically hysterical at this point. His lungs burned as the biting air thrashed in and out of him at a speed that the young man couldn't seem to slow down at all.

The pounding and thundering of that damned corded muscle within his chest rattled against its cage of bone and cartilage, pumping blood to his veins faster than Notre Dame’s bell ringer could keep up with, rendering him feeling rather lightheaded.

He felt certain slick tears would slip from his lids at any moment if he couldn't regain control of his emotions as he tried in vain to fight them back. His head remained buried in his hands. His lungs had calmed slightly, the burning feeling subsiding, though Quasi tried in vain to tamper down the memory of the first morning he had met his gargoyles when he was just eleven years old. Quasi wasn’t sure why this memory flitted into his head, but he figured his three stone companions would be able to help him resolve this little mess he’d gotten himself into with his beloved.

He could only hope they would listen to him and not scold him for the despicable way he had treated Madellaine just now, he thought bitterly to himself as he stalked down the stone bridge in search of Victor, Hugo, and Laverne, unable to stop the memory from flitting in the forefront of his troubled mind, and against his better judgment, despite his sour mood, a tiny smile playing on his face…

* * *

**MADELLAINE** thought this had to be some kind of a record, upsetting Quasi in the span of just a couple of days. The first few incidences had been relatively small by comparison in terms of this.

She’d slept right through morning Mass a few days ago and apparently this had worried him into thinking that she was sick. Madellaine stifled a tiny smile as she reached up a hand to tuck a wisp of her shaggy choppy blonde hair that fell to her chin in wisps and stray strands, her smile snaking its way onto her face at the memory. He worried and fretted over her, but there was another side of her that particularly liked it. Made her feel loved, wanted.

But now, she felt anything but. Her lungs burned, biting with the cold air as her chest hollowed and constricted, rendering the poor blonde feeling utterly breathless and rather light-headed.

The thundering of her heart rattling against its cage of cartilage and bone numbed her chest. Madellaine was sure slick tears would start to slip from her eyelids at any given moment with how her sight burned and blurred as tears had started to form.

Madellaine tried and felt like her efforts were in vain to fight down the salty liquid, preventing the hot tears marring her vision from leaving her eyes, not wanting Quasi if he came back to see just how much her reluctance to tell him the truth was hurting her.

But she figured it was for the best, especially right before they were to be married. He did not need the added emotional stress this sort of blow was sure to bring, and there was no telling what type of reaction her love would have once the truth came out of how Jehan Frollo had cornered her, and the way he’d _looked_ at her.

A violent shudder went up and down her back and her hands fidgeted nervously with her plain gold wedding ring, admiring the glint of the gold in the light. Oh, they were supposed to wait until after the official ceremony’s commencement to wear them, but neither had wanted to wait. Though Quasi could have given Madellaine nothing and she still would have told him yes.

Her hand rested limply in her lap and suddenly, Madellaine wished she could just cut off the offending limb when she’d tried to reach out her hand and touch the man’s shoulder. If someone did, she doubted she would even feel a thing. She’d driven him off.

_Damn_. There was no chance of fixing what she had done. Fighting the bitter tears that stung and pricked the corners of her vision, the young blonde woman desperately fought against the tide. She had cried enough; she _wasn't_ about to do it again!

Her lungs, starved for breath, gasped in oxygen but it burned them with its purity as her chest heaved and fought to regain sweet, precious air to her lungs. _I—I’m sorry_ , she thought, tightly squeezing her eyes shut, resisting the urge to throw her head back and scream, which if she were to not fight it, would surely bring Quasi and the rest of the cathedral’s caretakers running for that matter, surely thinking that she was being murdered up here.

“Why couldn’t I tell him the _truth_?” Madellaine whispered hoarsely. He’d always been forthcoming with her regarding any problems that were bothering him, and she knew she owed it to Quasi to try and apologize to him once her head was clearer and she was able to think rationally. She sniffed, wiping at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, wondering why it had come to this.

“Madellaine? I…we heard _crying_ , are you well?” came a familiar-sounding voice that instinctively made the blonde stiffen.

She flinched as Esmeralda’s husky voice, currently laced to the brim with concern, effectively succeeded in pulling Madellaine from the dark swirling vortex of confusing thoughts that threatened to engulf her entirely. Madellaine inwardly groaned and sanguinely lifted her head in the direction of Phoebus and his wife.

This was perhaps the one time she didn’t want the advice of their friends. If anything, she felt sure Esmeralda and Phoebus would scold them for not disclosing the truth to poor Quasimodo.

That was not a conversation the girl looked forward to having. Her lungs, at the very least, had calmed substantially, the burning feeling in her chest slowly subsiding, the tightness gone.

Slowly, Madellaine blinked her lids to tamper down the fresh onset of tears that threatened to escape as she turned to regard their friends, a guilty look on her face at the basket clutched in Esmeralda’s hands, a furrowed look on her beautiful face. Oh.

Right. She’d completely forgotten the two of them were to break their fast with them this morning. Madellaine let out a sigh.

She chewed on the wall of her mouth as she nervously met her dear friends’ gazes. Madellaine did not know exactly whom she had been expecting would have ventured up into their tower and found her out here, for a moment, she’d been hoping it was Quasi.

But to admit that she had forgotten Phoebus and Esmeralda were coming, and now to make things even worse, they found her out on the balcony terrace in this rather awkward position, slumped to the floor of the terrace, dried tear tracts staining her ashen cheeks was not exactly a promising sign.

Esmeralda merely shook her head and bit down on her bottom lip as she stared down her nose at her friend.

She furrowed her thin dark eyebrows into a frown and didn’t hesitate to set the basket down on the ground and slid down onto the floor next to her. Madellaine, puzzled at her dear friend’s behavior, merely raised her eyebrows in alarm at the slightly older woman’s new behavior.

“What happened?” Esmeralda questioned, non-accusatorily. She looked around the balcony, her confusion worsening. “Where’s Quasi? We thought he’d be up here with you?”

“He’s over in the south tower loft. I think I upset him,” she sighed, lifting her chin and looking disparagingly towards Esmeralda. Phoebus blanched, taking that as his visible cue to leave, and murmured something under his breath about finding him.

“He can’t have gone far, Lena. I’ll find him,” grumbled Phoebus, their golden-haired Sun God sounding disgruntled and thoroughly so at whatever mess Quasi’s temper had gotten him in.

Esmeralda slowly nodded, never averting her gaze from Madellaine’s distraught face, even when Phoebus’s footsteps receded, biting down on her bottom lip. “What happened?”

Madellaine lifted her eyebrows as she swallowed nervously. Something rather odd had happened today, but she wasn’t sure what. In any case, it had left her flushed with embarrassment and a hot shame as a fiery blush painted her cheeks a bright rosy red. As she looked at Esmeralda, she wondered if her friend, given her connection to the Court of Miracles and Clopin would know the strange gentleman she’d had the misfortune to run into.

Was Esmeralda even aware of this man’s presence in their lives? Surely, with the number of people Clopin knew in the city, she had to know, considering the two of them were distant cousins.

“I…met someone today, Esme,” Madellaine began slowly, her voice alert as she straightened her posture. “A young man. Well, in his forties, maybe, b—but that’s beside the point. He—he said his name was Jehan, a—and that he’s…that he’s Quasi’s _father_ , Esmeralda,” she murmured, looking away at the exact moment Esmeralda made an odd, strangled noise at the back of her throat and what little color was left in her pale face drained completely.

“I know him,” Esmeralda interjected swiftly, her husky voice sounding strangely dismissive. Madellaine blinked, looking up at her friend in alarm, surprised at the sudden shift in countenance.

She did not know why she was surprised Esmeralda seemed to know of Claude’s brother’s comings and goings through the city, though she guessed, considering Esmeralda’s relations with Clopin, that she shouldn’t be too surprised. “I think he…means to hurt him,” she said slowly. “I—I don’t have _proof_ , but he…he…”

Esmeralda kept her gaze fixated away from Madellaine and out at the vast cityscape in front of them, but Madellaine noticed that her dear friend’s voice sounded rather stilted when she spoke.

It was as if she wanted to move away from their topic of conversation as quickly as possible. Yet Madellaine could not help but ask why it was that her dear friend suddenly seemed so guarded. “You speak of him just now as though you know him…”

Esmeralda sighed exasperatedly, a cool wind blowing her wild ebony curls off of her face before turning to look at Madellaine. It was clear that she was growing weary of their talk.

“I thought I knew him,” she confessed, ignoring Madellaine’s widening blue eyes of dawning shock and horror.

Her tone was begrudging as Esmeralda turned away, continuing to speak to her friend, though to Madellaine her voice sounded strained and hoarse, as though every word uttered was causing her pain. “He’s here in the city for now. Clopin and I don’t know why he is back,” Esmeralda muttered begrudgingly through gritted teeth. “Ignore him, Lena, Frollo is of no concern of yours.”

“I see,” replied Madellaine coolly, though she nodded diligently. Every fiber of her being wanted to argue that she was going to make it a concern of hers, as far as where Quasi was concerned, and if his father meant to harm him, he had to be stopped. The authorities had to be told, a warrant out for his arrest, though Frederic and Phoebus couldn't arrest him without any sort of proof that Jehan meant his son harm. “Well…he seemed like he was planning to stay in town a while.”

“You spoke with him?” Esmeralda’s voice was sharp and horrified, almost a striking, complete contrast to her languid, lax, relaxed state a moment ago. “When? This morning?” she asked.

Madellaine blinked, feeling quite flustered. “Well, yes, I—I did,” she admitted nervously, painfully wringing her hands together as she stared at Esmeralda, who was suddenly looking towards her with narrowed green eyes, her demeanor much changed. “He—he _recognized_ me, at least, he spoke my _name_ , he smiled as if he knew who I was already, somehow. I can’t think why, as I’ve only met him once in the…by Claude’s grave…”

Her voice cracked and trailed off as she ducked her head.

Esmeralda’s eyes widened as if she was suddenly reminded of something rather unpleasant. She swallowed down hard and turned her head to the side to cough in order to clear her throat.

“Um, yes, that is…strange,” she managed to gasp out raggedly as she rose from her spot and leaned against the balcony’s balustrade as the wind whipped her hair off her shoulders and rustled the skirts of her dress. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself too much with Jehan, my friend. You’ve other matters to worry about. I would suggest, however, that you stay well away from him. Frollo’s younger brother has a reputation for being a ladies’ man.”

Madellaine lifted her eyebrows in sarcasm at this accusatory statement, thinking that Esmeralda had to have known Jehan Frollo quite well in order to make such an aspiration against Quasi’s father’s character. Esmeralda stole a quick glance at the young blonde and judging by the way her friend looked away from her immediately, almost in a flustered fashion, it was clear that she had understood Madellaine’s silent meaning, the words unspoken.

“I wouldn’t tell him if I were you, my friend, if I could give you just this one piece of advice, Madellaine,” Esmeralda advised softly, cringing as Phoebus came back with Quasi in tow, lowering her voices as the men approached so that only Madellaine could hear. She turned her gaze to regard the young blonde.

“O—of course,” stammered Madellaine. It was odd how light and breathless her voice sounded in comparison to Esmeralda’s, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Losing one’s father does weird things to a man,” Esmeralda continued speaking in a hushed voice, seemingly oblivious to the stunned shock that Madellaine was experiencing at that precise moment in their conversation. “There’s no telling how Quasimodo would react if he learned the truth. Even if he happened to be a _monster_. As far as I’m concerned, the Jehan Frollo I thought I knew once _died_ that day I saved his life from drowning.”

Madellaine’s eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath, though did not get a chance to speak as the men approached. She plastered a fake smile onto her face and the pair of women forced themselves to get through breakfast with their loved ones, though it was difficult for her to concentrate much on anything else.

The silence when Phoebus and Esmeralda left shortly after they’d finished eating made her feel nervous, and in her mind, she could still hear Quasi’s soft, tenor-like tones calling her name. She was quite perplexed at how their conversation had ended without him raising his voice at her in his growing anger.

But as she stood in the threshold that separated the balcony’s terrace, their favorite spot to sit at the top of the world up here and talk, or sometimes just bask in their newfound happiness, and in between the tower loft, as she felt Quasi’s tall, broad figure nudge beside her, their shoulders almost touching, she felt confident that no such confrontation from him was coming.

Too many things were buzzing around in her head and Madellaine felt confident with such an active mind that she couldn’t possibly go to sleep later tonight unless she apologized.

“Love?” she whispered, surprised at how faint her voice was. “I…I’m _sorry_ for how I…for I reacted towards you earlier. You don’t deserve it. I—it’s just that…everything is h—happening so quickly, and I guess...I'm feeling a little overwhelmed," she admitted sheepishly. "I was hoping that you and I could talk? If…if you want to?” she asked worriedly, biting down on her lip, turning to face Quasi, who was looking rather shocked and perplexed, but less so than Madellaine had expected to be as a hesitant smile flitted across the ghost of his handsome face as the man shyly nodded his agreement.

This time, she didn’t bother to hide back her soft smile as she held her hand outstretched for him to take.

He hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second before slipping his strong gloved hand into hers and gave her hand a light little squeeze, allowing Madellaine to take the lead and lead him out onto the balcony.


	5. The Power of Words

**5**

**AT** first, Quasi thought he had to be dreaming. He didn’t know how long he stood there out on the balcony terrace, leaning against the balustrade for support out here at the top of the world, with his hand intertwined with his fiancée’s, his eyes closed.

But when he opened his eyes and turned around, he was relieved to see that Madellaine had _not_ left him, as he had been afraid that she would have done. As far as he was concerned, she would have been well within her rights to be angry with him for not listening.

But no, here his love was, her short blonde hair tousled and windswept, her bangs blown off her forehead. It was almost as if she appeared out of thin air.

She smiled softly, rendering his heart thrumming wildly against his chest, even after these several months of the two living together, though not married. _Yet_ , he thought affectionately as his blue eyes met her gaze.

His heart leaped up into his throat as she rushed herself forward on the balls of her feet, practically throwing herself headlong into his arms, catching the man completely off guard and totally by surprise. But nevertheless, despite the unexpectedness of it, her touch was not unwelcome. In fact, he craved it as Quasi held Madellaine tighter against him, so tight he feared he’d hurt her, though Madellaine clung to him just as fiercely.

She burrowed her face into the crook of his neck as he took a moment to shut his eyes, his nostrils flaring, deeply inhaling her scent. Madellaine smelled like autumn.

His beloved smelled of pinewood, of fir trees, eucalyptus, things that took his mind to a happy place and allowed his soul to wallow and bask in her warmth.

When he pulled apart, albeit rather reluctantly, and stepped back slightly to study Madellaine’s face, he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, though the look of concern in her eyes and on her expression was…not admittedly what he had been expecting. She cocked her head to the side and let out a tired little sigh, causing him to be worried. A horrible pang fluttered through his chest, and he swore one of those days he was confident he’d manage to give himself a heart attack at the young age of only twenty-two, just from the amount of fretting and worrying that this woman caused.

Madellaine straightened her head, her frown worsening, and then looked away for a split second before finally turning back to face him. “I—I’m sorry,” she said.

Quasi’s anger and frustration reignited, though not with her. Why did she _always_ place the blame on herself?

Madellaine was acting like _she_ was the one at fault for what had happened when _he_ was the one who had fled. “Why?” he asked, despite his resentment, his heart still aching for his betrothed at how much she was hurting over this minor misunderstanding. Quasi couldn’t help it.

Madellaine’s expression shifted from one of remorse and regret to one of utter confusion as her eyes widened slightly and she straightened her head, huffing in her ire.

“Why?” she asked, a look of incredulous disbelief on her face. “Because…because I _hurt_ you, Quasi, that’s your answer as to your ‘ _why_.’ I—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Quasi blinked, feeling more than a little confused, though when he attempted to speak, it felt like there was a gag on his mouth as all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. “I…I don’t understand. I _hurt_ you,” he said, speaking slowly and surely to be sure he understood.

Madellaine paused, pursing her lips into a thin, rigid line, and furrowing her thin eyebrows into a little frown. He flinched whenever she did this, as it usually meant his beloved was stressed or upset whenever thinking about something that she would rather not. He had an inkling that it was regarding whoever it was she’d met at the inn today, though Phoebus had warned him not to press her for an answer, that she’d come to him when she was ready.

Though before he could part his lips open to speak, Madellaine interjected, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say next.

“Perhaps…” she began hesitantly, pausing as she searched for the right words, sounding so unsure of herself as she took a cautious step forward and clasped both of his gloved hands in hers and squeezed as she dared to meet his gaze. “We both apologize for how we reacted towards one another and move forward? Can we? I…” She bit down on her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout. “I—I still can’t tell you who I met today, sweetheart. I—I think that it would only hurt you, a—and you’re better off not knowing, but I need you to _trust_ me. _Do_ you?” she asked, after a long moment’s hesitation.

“Yes, Lena, you _know_ that I do, love. There’s no one I trust more with my life,” he answered immediately, not bothering to quell back the offending note in his voice at the fact that Madellaine even had to ask. Did he trust her? Was that even a legitimate question? Of course, he trusted his beloved. There was no one in the entire city of Paris that he trusted more. Quasi searched Madellaine’s eyes for any hint that she was still keeping something from him.

But if she were still hiding something from him, she hid it well and there was nothing within that he could detect, other than pure, unadulterated love for him that even to this day, with him due to marry her in two days, he felt that he did not rightfully deserve, nor would he ever.

Finally, after inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, he found his voice again as he was quick to nod his agreement.

“I think that’s a good idea, sweetheart. When you’re…if you’re ever ready to talk about it, I—I’ll be here to listen,” he said, at last, the tiny ghost of a smile flitting across his features as he cupped her chin in his gloved hand and closed off the gap of space between the two of them, unable to bear the distance any longer, pulling Madellaine close until he felt her hands splayed across his chest.

Grabbing onto his biceps with her trembling hands, she braced herself to the man’s chest.

“I love you, Quasi, and I hope you know that I always will, no matter what happens. Let’s just…put it behind it. We’re _past_ it,” she declared boldly, and unsure, disbelieving of her own actions, but wanting so desperately for her love to see that she truly was sorry for what had transpired, Madellaine pressed her hungry lips against his mouth and kissed him, tearing down the walls of anger she’d built up.

Quasi stood there, shocked, and unable to respond like he normally would, the world around them as they stood out on the balcony ledge utterly spinning as he tasted the sweet magnificence of Madellaine’s gentle kiss. He was shocked initially at the unexpectedness of her kiss, considering how he had left things with her, though it was in the tentative stupor of realizing that God had finally given a monstrous wretch like him everything in this world that he wanted most: a soon-to-be-loving wife, a family, perhaps even one day, if God would see fit to bless them, children of their own, providing they weren’t born like him, and being afraid that if he moved even a fraction of an inch, Madellaine and his life would all just disappear.

Quasimodo knew he could not afford to take any risks with her.

Even if this was exactly what she wanted, him, he had to still be certain. He could barely manage to bring his own lips to meet hers. Until Madellaine had literally stumbled into his life all those months ago at the Feast of Fools, he had never before been affected by a girl.

But now…never before had he been so certain, so sure of his own feelings, and yet feeling so uncertain now.

He felt like an awkward boy fumbling through his first kiss, which, he cringed to think of their first kiss, how inexperienced he was, though Madellaine had not cared, and it seemed the same rang true at this moment as they made up.

The overwhelming, euphoric sensation of her body pressed against his was almost too good to be true, that in just another two days, Madellaine Renee de Barreau would be his wife. His _wife_. Something that he never thought a damned soul like him would be blessed to have.

Just the thought of calling this celestial-like creature embracing him in his arms, her lips pressed against his, his wife, sent a quiet vibration plastered underneath his wretched skin and made him shiver, though not with fear or revulsion, but of pleasure. Quasi was terrified of making a wrong move with Madellaine. He prayed his love would not misinterpret his reaction, and his heart sank as she did.

Madellaine’s eyes flung open, her hands caressing his face, though she pulled apart as she quickly realized the man she loved was not reacting to her kiss or her nearness. Hurt, shaken, and more than a little stunned, she pulled back from him and desperately searched his eyes.

Madellaine’s wounded expression registered the hurt and confusion that was evident on her face as plain as her cute little slender nose on her face as she drew her hands back down to her sides before bringing them up to cover her mouth. She stood there, numb for a long minute.

She staggered backward away from Quasimodo in embarrassment, her cheeks now flushed a bright pink hue.

“I—I’m sorry, darling,” she begged, utterly mortified as her blush intensified as she met the bell ringer’s gaze. “I—I _shouldn’t_ have, I don’t know _what_ I was thinking…”

Madellaine suddenly felt the urge to run away, turned on the heels of her boots to flee the scene immediately, though as she moved towards the entryway to their tower loft, Quasi bounded forward and caught Madellaine gently by her wrist, prevent her from leaving.

As gingerly as he could, the bell ringer carefully brought his fiancée around to face him.

“Lena, _stop_ ,” he begged of the young blonde woman in earnest. “All I’ve ever wanted since you came into my life was to be close to you. To hold you, to kiss you,” he admitted huskily, his voice lowering an octave as he cupped her chin in his hand. “The last thing in this world I want would be to hurt you.”

His eyes were now filling to the brim with love and affection for her as he tilted her head slightly, once more pulling her to his chest, letting out a content little sigh as her hands splayed across his chest before her fingers curled and seized onto fistfuls of his thick green wool tunic for support. “But…are you sure you want… _me_?” he asked her lovingly, reaching up a hand to tuck a wisp of her shaggy short blonde hair back behind her ear where it belonged.

Madellaine tried to speak but found that she couldn’t. All she could do was nod, unable to tear her gaze away from his.

She was awed by the lengths and the depths her bell ringer went to care for her, and it did not hit her until that moment why Quasi had not met her kiss the way that he usually did, the way that she had hoped for following their little misunderstanding a little while ago.

She loved him even more for it as the realization dawned on her face. He had wanted Madellaine to be completely assured of her feelings for him before they married, and totally comfortable. Madellaine mirrored the man’s emotions and brought her hands back up to rest on his face.

“ _Yes_ , love. I have never been surer of anything in my entire life, Quasi. Love me, darling?” she asked as she smiled, tears pricking at the corners of her lids, though this time, thank god, they were tears of happiness, not ire.

Quasi’s strong arms wound tightly around her middle, smiling at her as he held her in his arms, unwilling to let Madellaine go. Gently, he bent his neck and kissed the top of her hair. Her worst fear was that he would leave.

But now she knew her fear was unfounded and ridiculous. This man she could trust. Her bell ringer was _hers_. Truly hers. Quasi would never leave her side, she knew this. He loved her, and she loved him. Her apprehension was replaced by an affectionate smile as she beheld him, a tremor running down her spine as he whispered his next words to her before his lips met hers.

“Until the end of the world.”

* * *

 **ESMERALDA** did not know how long she stood staring into the flames of the hearth of her and Phoebus’s simple little home once the pair of them had made it back. Her mind still felt like it was reeling from everything thus far.

Her arm still stung from where she’d accidentally cut it the other night attempting to confront Jehan Frollo.

And now the heat from the fire emanating from the hearth, sending its roaring heat and light throughout the home of their two-room little hut. The heat from the flames flushed her cheeks and nearly made the poor woman sweat as beads of sweat gathered along her browbone and slicked down the front and sides of her temples, however, she suddenly felt chilled and more than a little bit alone, despite Phoebus just being in the next room over from her.

Esmeralda flinched the moment she heard Phoebus’s heavy footfalls approach from the next room, though the tension in her shoulders and chest quickly melted as she felt her husband’s arms snake around her middle. She let out a gasp of surprise and pleasure as the whiskers of the three-day jaw stubble of his goatee tickled, and his lips sent a pleasurable shudder through her hips that had found its way to between her legs, pooling with heat. His hands followed the curves of her body as he spun his wife around.

Now finding herself face-to-face with Phoebus, Phoebus drew Esmeralda closer to him, while the lips that had made her tingle with anticipation moments ago found her neck as he growled into the kiss, nipping the skin slightly at the column of her throat, hard enough to almost bruise.

Esmeralda fitted herself around Phoebus, leaning her head back, closing her eyes, presenting more of herself to her golden-haired Sun God. He nuzzled the skin of her collarbones and toyed with the ends of her black hair, and as Esmeralda let out a relieved little exhale, she could feel Phoebus’s own body react as he moved into her.

“Mind if I join you, love?” his baritone voice teased.

Esmeralda smiled widely, still keeping her eyes closed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, soldier boy,” she answered happily, visualizing everything ahead that Phoebus surely had planned for her in her mind coming.

She did not know how long the two of them opted to stand in front of the fireplace like this, their arms wound around each other, never leaving one another. For a long while, the pair said nothing, simply enjoying each other’s closeness, not needing to say a word to feel quite content.

And even now, in their simple hut that served as the home that Phoebus had built for them ever since they had married, it felt as when they were here alone, that they were the only two people that had ever existed in this world. Unable to resist Esmeralda’s call any longer, not to touch her, Phoebus reached out and stroked back a dark lock of Esmeralda’s hair that had fallen into her eyes.

Esmeralda leaned into his touch, enticing her husband to hold her as tightly as he dared if he wanted it.

Phoebus exhaled slowly through his nose, hypnotized by the young Romani woman he had married.

“You’re so beautiful, Esme,” he affirmed, unable to take his eyes off her. Esmeralda grew rigid at his words.

Her green eyes as she spun around to face him, which now threatened to build with tears upon hearing Phoebus’s words, fell from his face and looked to the floor. Her shoulders slumped in defeat and she attempted to stagger away from Phoebus’s embrace, though if anything, the man’s grip on her wrist tightened, not letting her go. He furrowed his brows into a frown at her reaction.

“Oh, please, don’t,” Esmeralda begged Phoebus, shaking her head desperately, lowering her head as her dark ebony curls tumbled in front of her face, effectively shielding whatever expression she currently wore from Phoebus. “ _Don’t_ call me that,” she implored, near tears.

Immediately sensing his wife’s distress, Phoebus began to grow worried, surprised at the shift in Esmeralda’s countenance. It was rare to see her moved to the point of almost-tears. She was a woman who rarely cried, so to see his lady love like this was… _unnerving_ , to say the least.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Phoebus demanded, doing his best to ensure he didn’t sound hurt or angered.

Esmeralda looked away, ashamed as a fiery heat crept onto her cheeks. She inhaled a deep breath of biting cold air to explain why she could not bear the man’s compliment but found that her tongue refused her words’ release, that she could not make her voice reach her lips.

Phoebus scooted in a fraction of an inch closer to comfort her as Esmeralda felt the strength leave her legs, and she opted to sit cross-legged on the bear pelt skin rug in front of the fire, sliding his hands up towards her arms.

The Sun God glided his touch from her slender pale fingers to her elbows, and then further upwards to tighten his embrace on his wife. Somehow, perhaps she was reassured by his soothing touch, Esmeralda summoned the courage within to tell him her painful memories of Jehan.

“No one that I’ve ever known save for one other man in my life before I met you has ever thought me _beautiful_.”

It did not escape Phoebus’s attention that Esmeralda spat the word ‘beautiful’ as though she’d swallowed poison and crinkled her nose in utter disgust.

Her green eyes became glossy and distant, recalling her past. Without hesitation, Esmeralda shook her head wordlessly, covering her face with her hands, actively averting Phoebus’s questioning gaze. There was a long silence, broken only by a shuddering sob that wracked her body as her shoulders shook.

“I—I couldn’t _save_ him,” she choked out, at last, swallowing down past a lump forming in her throat.

Phoebus hesitated, chewing the wall of his mouth as his inhibitions and his sense of property compelled him to do whatever he could to comfort Esmeralda during her moment of need. It was his necessary and rightful duty as her husband, after all, but more importantly than that, he wanted to comfort her.

If only to see her smile again. Phoebus rested a rough, calloused hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “Love,” he murmured consolingly, lifting his other hand to smooth the back of her wild black raven hair. “You can talk to me. Tell me what ails you. What’s the matter?”

His blood began to boil when she did not respond, his heart aching for Esmeralda, yet wanting to know the truth. When Esmeralda looked up at Phoebus, her mossy green orbs scintillated with horrible grief that the Sun God and newly reinstated Captain of the Guard could hardly bear it. As she raised her face, large droplets slipped out from behind her lids and trailed down her ashen cheeks, dripping onto the bearskin pelt rug they sat on.

Esmeralda’s next words were like a knife in his heart.

“ _He was the first man I loved._ ”


	6. Nothing Lasts

**6**

**ESMERALDA** studied Jehan with a worried frown, at the beads of sweat glistening along the man’s strong, discerning brow, not realizing how emaciated he’d become.

Her sense of urgency grew as she could tell by his shaking hands that something was wrong. He was feverish. Since pulling him from the riverbank, he’d raved, delusional, calling her occasionally by the wrong name. She had barely managed to drag him back to the Court of Miracles when it quickly became to the young gypsy that Jehan’s health was in jeopardy. His eyes were distant, and every rattling breath seemed like it hurt him.

Esmeralda feared the handsome man was slipping away from her, and her fierce desire to see this man restored to his fullest capable health took over with a profound fierceness, the likes of which she’d not felt before.

Her guilt consumed her at the thought of him fading. She’d have to risk bringing an intruder into her cousin’s Court of Miracles to ensure the man being supported by half her body weight, as his arm was slung over her shoulder and he’d staggered the whole way back.

All the while, Jehan weakened in her grasp, his body leaning against hers, almost tugging the front half of her ivory chemise down, exposing her pale, ivory shoulders.

Esmeralda exhaled softly through her nose and steeled herself as she relinquished her grip on the man and shoved open the top slab of the ancient mausoleum that took her and Jehan down the stone stairwell to her Court.

Though the moment she managed to lead the barely cognizant man, feverish and raving at this point, towards the Court, she noticed Clopin waiting for her, wearing a disgruntled and odd expression on his tanned features.

“What? What is it, cousin? What’s the matter?” Esmeralda uttered cautiously as she dared to come closer towards her cousin and appointed king of their people.

She furrowed her thin dark eyebrows until a frown until she saw that he was looking at Jehan with no small amount of trepidation coupled with anxiety on his features.

“Why is _he_ here? You _know_ this man?” Clopin questioned Esmeralda in a suspicious, guarded manner, folding his arms across his chest in a fit of worry.

Esmeralda inclined her head respectfully towards her peoples’ king. “Good evening to you too, king,” she murmured, though she hoped a friendly enough smile tinged with the right amount of worry would aid her cause.

There was no need for her now to pretend at the concern that wormed its way into the pit of her stomach.

“I—I do not perceive this man to be a threat to _me_ or to the rest of our people, Clopin. I found him by the river almost half-drowned and he’d been stabbed. He’s chilled to the bone and exhausted. I think the man’s developing a fever, monsieur,” Esmeralda continued, as the king of the Court of Miracles eyed Esmeralda and the barely-conscious figure of Jehan Frollo, only standing upright at this point because her arm was wound around his right shoulder.

She paused, exhaling a shaking breath through her nose. “I was hoping I might beg of you to let him stay?” she inquired, praying her distant cousin two or three times removed as well as her king would take pity upon the man.

Clopin remained silent for a good long moment as he squinted his eyes as his gaze bore deep into Esmeralda’s. She shifted her weight awkwardly from one foot to the next as she hoped her mistrust in him was not misplaced, though she breathed out relief as he nodded.

“Bed him down there for the night, away from the others,” he barked hoarsely towards a spare caravan that had been vacated by old Gwendolyn not that long ago.

“Thank you,” said Esmeralda quickly as she inclined her head, not knowing quite what else to say to her cousin. “I will see if I can get him to calm down and hopefully, he’ll get the rest that he needs. I couldn’t just let the man die.”

Clopin looked as though there was more that he wanted to say, a muscle in his jaw and behind his right eye gave a twitch, though he prompted instead to favor silence as the only apt response and motioned towards the caravan with a curt wave of his arm, as if to say, “Get on with it, then.”

Esmeralda nodded, turning on her heels and dragging the poor fellow she’d found on the riverbank towards the waiting caravan, hoping that the old wagon would give her the privacy to work unencumbered, and a warmer surface would help the man’s fever to go down.

Esmeralda could not help but feel an eerie sense of frustration bubble within herself as she escorted the stumbling man up the steps of the caravan and inside it.

She knew that she had always cared for the welfare of others over that of herself when it came down to it, something that Clopin and others in their Court chastised her for, saying that they had to look out for their own kind.

That no one would look out for the outcasts like them. Clopin was a man who seemed to think he knew what a young woman like Esmeralda wanted, what was sure to provide her happiness, but the man was _wrong_.

She was beginning to think her own happiness was a concept that did not exist for a woman like her, as much as Esmeralda might wish for it one day. Clopin always tried to protect her without getting too close. She’d thought it had been fear manifesting in her cousin, fear of her, in a way, but now she was starting to understand why Clopin had chosen to remain along, even amongst that of his own people, in paranoia, afraid always, and alone. Always alone.

Esmeralda froze, pondering this thought, though she had no time to dwell on this as she heard this Jehan give out a low, guttural pain-filled moan, and it quickly snapped her back to the urgent reality of her situation.

The moment she stepped inside, the poor fellow practically stumbled his way to the makeshift cot at the back of the caravan, terror rooting deeply in her stomach as the man collapsed on his back, his dark hair dripping in sweat and clinging to his forehead the more his fever raged.

Esmeralda knew she had to do what she could in order to bring the man’s fever down, lest it burns his insides from the inside out. Fires raged, but fevers consumed.

Esmeralda worked quickly to burn sage throughout the caravan to purify the interior of the wagon as well as to make it smell not so musty in here while she worked. The smell of potpourri stalled from the nearby table, flooding her nose with the scent.

Esmeralda suddenly found herself quite ashamed to have carried this man, this Jehan, all the way here without ever speaking a single word to him.

The man was in shock, she reckoned, seeing him sulking even in his feverish state as if his soul had floated away like helium. She walked towards him and knelt on the edge of the bedside, little more than a cot.

Her firm hand jutted out and stiffly caught Jehan’s jaw. An odd, strange power, coupled with a warmth she had never felt before, surged at the sight of his careworn face. It was in it that she read the man like an open book.

He was a scared, rejected man who would never be good enough for the likes of the rest of the world. Like her.

Esmeralda paused, not sure how to react, though her muscles drained even when her pupils dilated into small pools of sympathy. She was not a woman who would take advantage of him in his weakened, vulnerable state.

She wondered as she looked at him if this was a man whose only missing piece to make him whole was affection.

Earnest, warm affection. That _she_ could provide.

“Stop.” Esmeralda heard her command. Jehan looked up at Esmeralda as though she’d cast hypnosis. Her grip on the man’s firm, angular jaw tightened but still, Jehan, even in his feverish state, did not flinch.

She saw the bobbing up and down of the man’s Adam’s apple. Esmeralda’s pale green eyes widened in shock as she felt moisture behind her lids as he looked at her that she could have sworn was not there before earlier.

She suddenly wished for nothing more than to give this man this missing, broken piece, thinking that, perhaps if she could give him the affection he seemed to be missing, then maybe, maybe she would discover for herself what was missing in her own life during the process of helping him to heal.

Esmeralda broke her gaze away from the feverish bloke just long enough to turn towards the basin rested on a small side table, rolling up the sleeves of her chemise underneath her dark purple overdress, while her thoughts spirited away to rather inappropriate places while she diligently sponged at the man’s forehead with a cold cloth, trying to ignore the incessant chattering of his teeth.

It was only when Jehan’s lids fluttered closed that she realized she was in grave trouble. “Jehan,” she called out, unable to quell the note of urgency in her voice, alarmed. He did not respond to her lowered, husky tone.

Still, there was no movement from her. She reached out a trembling hand and stroked at his dark hair, checking him. Her eyes widened in dread, again, the monsieur’s name was ripped from her lips. Esmeralda was unable to wake Jehan.

It was just as she had feared. Esmeralda rose, darting out of the spare caravan in search of old Gwen.

_She’ll know what to do better than I could_ , Esmeralda thought frantically, lifting up the skirts of her chemise and overdress to avoid tripping while she ran.

It did not take long to find old Gwendolyn, deep in conversation with their king and another of Clopin’s compatriots, a large, broad man named Pitvio with a rather overweight, protruding, large stomach and a black beard.

“My goodness, Esme, what be the trouble?” Gwendolyn questioned, quirking a thin, greying brow at Esmeralda’s sweat-soaked brow, her wild raven black hair, shocked at the half-crazed young woman standing in front of her, her face ashen and taking on quite a greyish tinge.

Esmeralda suddenly found that she was overwrought with sympathy for the man she had left behind in the caravan, and as a consequence, could barely manage to form a coherent sentence as her mind reeled for a desperate understanding.

“My…my new love,” she stammered, a fiery heat creeping to her cheeks as she recognized Clopin would require a viable excuse if the man were to stay in their Court of Miracles for the time being, for if not, the man would be _hanged_ , as they could not afford trespassers knowing the location of their hideaway, her face a mask of fright. Her eyes wide with terror, she swallowed thickly down past a lump in her throat as she struggled to find the right words. “My… _lover_ has taken ill.”

Esmeralda struggled to catch her breath through the terror overwhelming her. She did not think she could handle it if the young man were to die whilst in her care.

“He is fevered, and I cannot manage to rouse him. I’ve tried sponging his forehead, but nothing I do helps.”

She stared at old Gwendolyn earnestly, her green irises brimming with the onset of frightened tears, unsure where this sudden display of emotion was coming from, considering she had just met this Jehan, whose surname she did not know, and yet found herself overwhelmed to the brim with compassion and sympathy for the man.

“ _Please_.” She begged, beseeching the wizened old woman for her help, clasping onto Gwendolyn’s slightly curled, arthritic claws with her own and squeezing them. “Please help me.” Shaking in her distraught plea, Esmeralda’s heart threatened to burst through her chest.

Gwendolyn offered a curt nod of her head and mumbled a half-hearted excuse to their king under her breath, winding her shawl tighter around her shoulders for warmth, and nodded her assistance to the younger woman.

She backed away and wanted to rush ahead back to the caravan, but somehow, held her gait to match Gwen’s elderly, slowed, and somewhat shuffling footfalls forward.

Esmeralda heard her prayers inside her frantic, panicked mind as she prayed that this Jehan would be roused by the time the two women returned to the wagon.

She could not bear to think that he might not be. Gwendolyn, surprisingly, entered the wooden caravan first and raced to where Jehan’s body lay almost utterly lifeless on the cot on the floor. “I—I found him like this by the Seine, milady,” Esmeralda told the old woman frantically.

Her heart plummeted to the pit of her churning stomach when she realized the handsome, dark-haired man was still unconscious. The old woman bent stiffly to examine Jehan. She touched his clammy forehead and listened to his ragged, gasping, and labored breathing.

Taking his wrist, Gwen held it gently, feeling his pulse. As she arose, her aching bones creaking and groaning with the effort, the caring aging soul turned on Esmeralda, pursing her lips into a thin line, and fixing the younger ebony-haired woman with an admonishing glare.

“Boy has a name?” she questioned, her tone sounding strangely guarded as she fixed Esmeralda with a pointed stare, that Esmeralda wasn’t sure what to make of.

“Jehan,” she answered immediately, not sure why a spiraling warmth flickered through her face as the syllables of the man’s name rolled off her tongue, fluidly, smoothly.

She nodded in approval. “A fine name,” Gwen affirmed, though her anger quickly flared. “What has been done to bring down his fever?” She looked around the room for confirmation, smirking a little at the sage and potpourri, and noticed the damp cloth that Esmeralda was subconsciously wringing in her hands in nervous agitation.

“I—I sponged his forehead, Gwen, b—but I’ve not yet had time to search for the right herbs,” she murmured.

She flinched, watching as the old woman’s anger flared. “You are lucky this young boy is even still alive.”

Though Gwendolyn’s ire instantly abated as the old crone was quick to notice the guilt that edged Esmeralda’s expression as she flinched away in both hurt and surprise. Gwendolyn said nothing more as she turned on her heels and laid a fresh, cool wet cloth over Jehan’s scorching forehead, setting a bowl of cold water on the table near the cot. Esmeralda never once took her eyes off the young man.

Gwendolyn made an odd snorting noise at the back of her throat while she allowed Esmeralda to take over the sponging of the man’s forehead while she set about preparing a poultice of herbs to break the man’s fever, and her own heart gave a pitiful little tug for the young woman, whom she considered very much as a daughter figure to her as she could see Esmeralda’s distress across the room.

“Fear not, my dear,” Gwen tried to encourage, giving her arm an affectionate pat before she shuffled out of the room. “With rest and care, the man whose life you saved tonight will surely recover. And I think, in time, the man will thank you for it, young mademoiselle,” she smiled.

All throughout the night, Esmeralda kept vigil at Jehan’s bedside. His fever burned so that when Gwen returned, the pair of women had to remove the blankets of his cot and washed his skin with a mixture of mint and lemon, followed by cold water with the first layer dried out.

Esmeralda brewed a fragrant tea of herbs over a candle near the head of the cot where the aroma would heal Jehan’s body from the malady that was afflicting him so.

Esmeralda pointedly refused food or sleep. Her mind would find no rest, not while this man teetered in between the brink of the abyss and the world of the living.

Her stomach would keep down no nourishment on this night anyway, even if she were of a mind to try to eat.

She never relinquished her grip on the man’s hand. She wanted Jehan to know that someone cared for him. She, perhaps foolishly so, hoped that somewhere in the darkness that shrouded his sense of awareness from her, that he was somehow aware of her nearness right now.

She prayed Jehan would make a full recovery. Esmeralda had not meant for her head to fall upon the pillows beside Jehan as she fought through her own fatigue during the late morning of the third day of Jehan’s illness.

She had only wanted to rest her eyes, just for a minute, though before she could force herself awake, Esmeralda had fallen into a fitful and restless slumber.

Her dreams, strangely enough, were filled with him. He needed her, he screamed her name, but she could not get to him. It was as if a great cloud of darkness were after her, chasing her as she ran, sprinting, screaming his name. She felt strange, white-hot sensations on her skin, the pads of someone’s rough, calloused fingertips moving delicately over the skin of her cheeks, brushing against her temple and into her thick raven curls. She bolted awake.

Esmeralda immediately looked to her left and much to her amazement, it had not been some horrible demonic entity that had touched her in the throes of her deep sleep. Esmeralda’s eyes opened wide-eyed and in awe to find Jehan’s weak, impressed smile cast upon her form.

It had been his fingers that caressed her skin while she’d slept, and that still were cradling her face tenderly.

His fever had broken, color returned to his complexion, and Jehan had finally returned from the brink. He rested still and unmoved on the pile of pillows, looking every bit like that of a Roman or Greek god, regarding Esmeralda with a strange sense of affection that made her want to smile, though she raised herself to his face and smiled. “You came back,” Esmeralda smiled, resting her face next to his, surprised at her new boldness.

In the chill of the morning, Esmeralda was surprised to find herself very nearly leaning into Jehan’s warmth, her green eyes grazing curiously over his handsome, strong face. A Roman-like jaw, strong angular features. Black hair.

Though it was the man’s eyes that were the true prize. Mysterious, alluring, glistening with something fierce. She watched as recognition dawned over his face.

“I had a reason to come back,” he murmured softly, and Esmeralda gasped as his mouth came down on hers.

His tongue was in her mouth, tasting her. Thank God no remnants of a past meal lingered in between her teeth, for it had been so long since she had last eaten.

The man’s kiss was bruising, almost painful in a way. His face was hot against hers, though now it was feverish in a different kind of way, this time not from his illness, but with a burning need quickly developing within.

His entire body as it so happened seemed to be on fire. Jehan’s mouth never left hers long enough to protest, and as one hand moved to hike up the skirts of her dress to her waist, the other grabbed roughly at the back of her hair.

He yanked her head back, baring her throat, though his lips remained on Esmeralda’s, almost possessive. When she felt a searing pain in between her legs and an uncomfortable warmth tingling inside of her, she let out a pained groan and fisted at the man’s jerkin.

She moaned in agony though he swallowed her cries, and she thought she heard him nearly laugh into their kiss as he no doubt realized that he had been the first man to take her maidenhead. Not that she minded at all. He was quick in his movements, forceful, unyielding, and unrelenting.

Jehan gave her no time or room to adjust, holding onto her hips and in her hair firmly, bruising her mouth with his kisses possessively. Esmeralda was about to allow the tears to pour onto her pale cheeks until the man moved his lips to the shell of her ear and the man panted out her name in desperate need. She froze. She’d never heard another man say her name in such a way before. She was the center of Jehan’s attention, his desires, and that alone, numbed her pain.

No man had ever wanted her before, until today. To have a man that wanted her was almost… _intoxicating_ , yes. Her grasp tightened on Jehan’s skin, and a long, luxurious wail rose from her throat as she saw white behind her closed lids for a moment and forgot her name.

It drove him to his limit, and he let out a low, guttural groan, almost a wolfish growl as he groaned in relief, burying his face in the crook of her neck, kissing it.

“Let’s stay here forever,” he coaxed as he had finished, panting, and gasping for breath as he rolled himself off of her and propped himself up on his elbows.

Esmeralda entwined her fingers in his, holding his hand. She nestled closer into the crook of his shoulder. “I like the sound of that,” she grinned, dreamily enjoying the picture the man from the riverbank was painting for her.

But if only she could have known it wouldn’t last. 

* * *

**ESMERALDA** flinched as she felt Phoebus immediately pull away from the gentle embrace, his arms falling limp at his sides. She did not know exactly where her words started coming from, only that they came forth from her lips in the first place. But she told him _everything_. How she had saved Jehan from drowning, treated his wounds, how the man was kind to her, treated her as though she really mattered. “I have _never_ fit your French version’s ideals of beauty, and Jehan never let me forget it. He…I came to see him, the—the other night, Phoebus.” Esmeralda tried to peer at Phoebus through her heavily lidded green eyes.

Phoebus could see his wife’s efforts were falling terribly short. The tears that rested upon her lashes were evidence of her pains. Phoebus did not say a single word.

He felt… _numb_. He made no sound at all. The Sun God was sure his face burned the same temperature of the fire that he had lit for warmth. Phoebus felt hollow.

When he looked back to Esmeralda, the softness had disappeared from his previously pensive staring. He glared bitterly at Esmeralda. Her face too had lost its hopeful anticipation, as she watched confusion mar his lined face.

Phoebus pulled his hand back angrily and shirked away from his wife. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me any of this?” he growled, silently seething through his gritted, gnashing teeth. The crushing sorrow and confusion that Esmeralda found in her husband’s expression shattered her to pieces.

It was somehow worse than the grief she had seen in him the night before she was supposed to have been killed.

His wary eyes searched his wife’s face, looking for a reason that could have justified why she’d lied to him, kept it from him, lied to him by omission by not telling him.

“I—I need to go,” Esmeralda whispered, suddenly not sure she could stomach being in the same room as Phoebus while under the scrutiny of such an intense gaze.

She rose shakily to her feet and turned on the heels of her feet to go, not wanting to look Phoebus in the eyes. She had done this, all of it. It was she who’d inflicted such a horrible pain on the man who now held her heart. She could torment her soldier boy no longer. If he needed her gone this night, then she would go to Notre Dame. He would know where to find her. Esmeralda would try to win back Phoebus’s love some other way, later on.

At this moment, however, Esmeralda would give Phoebus the only peace she could possibly think to give.

Her absence. “I—I’m sorry,” she wept a strangled cry before disappearing from the room altogether and making her way to the front door of their home, leaving Phoebus alone in their hut, once more, as she had done last night.

As Esmeralda gingerly closed the door behind her, tears forming in her eyes and rolling down her lids, she exhaled a shuddering breath and began to walk away.

She knew where she wanted to go, and Esmeralda was smart enough not to look back, for Esmeralda would have seen Jehan Frollo stalking her from the shadows.


	7. I Will Help Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my first ever fan-art of sorts, of what I think Madellaine would look like in live-action form. I hope it doesn't suck lol. If you're interested, you can check it out here: https://www.deviantart.com/marrowinthebarrow/art/Disney-s-Madellaine-869823923

**7**

**MADELLAINE** walked slowly and purposefully through the corridors of the cathedral, in awe still, even after all this time of how the place was more or less silent when no other souls were wandering about. Well. Save for _her_ in this case. She marveled at how quickly the cathedral’s front doors had been repaired after Frollo’s attempted sieging—

“ _No_!” she whisper-hissed through her gritted teeth and forced her mind to grind to a halt.

She could not allow herself to think of Claude. Because doing that would then prompt her to think of Jehan, and the encounter with the man in the inn earlier today was still entirely too fresh in her mind. She wanted nothing more than to leave the entire Frollo family behind. In her _past_ , where it belonged.

Madellaine knew it was what best, not just for her, but for Quasi as well. Such knowledge that his real father was alive would surely not sit well with him, considering…

_Considering how the man looked at you in the inn_ , the dark, demonic voices taunted her from the darkest corners of her mind. Though Madellaine halted in her steps. _But you didn’t TELL him of this. Because you were too afraid. Because you were too much of a coward, girl._

The voices inside of her mind sounded entirely too much like that of Judge Claude Frollo for her own comfort.

“ _No_!” she cried out, hoping it would be the silencer to the voices inside her head. “Y—you’re _wrong_! H—he doesn’t _need_ to know the truth. It would surely _kill_ him!”

Sucking in the night air around her pushed down past the lump in her throat and filled the hole in her heart. She willed her mind to think of _nothing_ as she restlessly and aimlessly walked the desolate main level of the sanctuary of the cathedral, her fists balling tightly against her growing fire-seed of anger churning in her chest as it heaved for calm. Madellaine sincerely hoped that she would not spend another long dark chasm of tonight trying to fight to keep herself sinking into an awful misery.

Racked with the memory of what Judge Claude Frollo had almost taken from her, her heart was a hollow, empty pit in her chest.

Briefly, she was tempted to venture up back to the north bell tower stairwell and go to sleep. Except then that would mean being forced to look into her love’s eyes and know that she had more or less _lied_ to him today by omission, and that _didn’t_ sit well with her.

Madellaine had never lied to Quasi in all the time that she had known him. Today was the first time, and she prayed to God that it would be the last time and that her beloved would forgive her. But she only wanted to protect him. Fighting the bitter despair the girl knew would come for her, she battled the tears that stung at her eyes. She had cried enough.

She let out a muted groan and wiped at her nose with the edge of her sleep as she strolled at a relatively leisurely pace down the long aisle towards the Virgin Mary.

Madellaine could not help but ponder what their future would hold once they married on Friday as she slowed her stride upon seeing the Archdeacon converse with a tall, towering figure, alongside Esmeralda. Intrigued, her natural curiosity getting the better of her in this instance, Madellaine lifted the skirts of her dark blue velvet gown and inched forward for a closer look, straining her ears for sounds to see what snippets of conversation she could make out. 

It was _not_ eavesdropping, she told herself. Merely a concern for her beloved dear friend who held such a look of tiredness and misery upon her face, tears of her own in her eyes that Madellaine quickly felt a constricting pang in her chest as her throat tightened. She met her friend’s gaze.

_Has something happened to Phoebus_? Madellaine was sure the worry was wrought within her own blue eyes.

Esmeralda gave a brief shake of her head, her arms folded across her chest and her lips pursed into a thin line. Her friend tore her gaze away from her and back towards the pair of men, her gaze fixated on the stranger that, as Madellaine grew closer towards the Archdeacon, the pit of nausea in her stomach only worsened and churned, as her face turned an interesting shade of green. As usual, the aging old Archdeacon of Josas sensed the bell ringer’s love before he saw the petite little blonde.

The Archdeacon greeted her before she had even laid eyes upon the second figure with whom he seemed to be so deeply engrossed in conversation. “Milady Barreau.”

The Archdeacon nodded, having sensed her presence as he looked up and over his shoulder, shooting the lass an affectionate smile. “Please. Do come closer.”

He motioned with a slight jerking of his arthritic hand for the girl to approach. Madellaine covered the distance from where the two men and Esmeralda stood in relatively short order, noticing with worry and suspicion how Esmeralda’s posture stiffened as the man crept closer.

The Archdeacon nodded a smile to Madellaine as she approached. She lowered her head with the utmost reverence upon reaching the elderly clergyman, who had been nothing but kind to her all those months ago since she had first claimed sanctuary here upon being relieved from Judge Frollo’s servitude as his hearth keep, before…the _fire_. Madellaine’s eyes widened as she realized what she was doing to herself, giving her head a shake to clear it.

Madellaine was at a loss as to what the Archdeacon could need of her. However, considering all that he had done for her, offering her shelter in her life at a time when she had needed it the most, which in turn had afforded her the opportunity to meet Quasi, she’d do anything she could to help this man, whatever he asked of her, she’d do it.

It was the least she could do, she told herself.

“Your Grace? Is there something you require of me?” she inquired, her tone guarded and cautious. She could practically feel the other figure’s piercing stare burning a hole through the back of her skull, though her cheeks flushed with color, Madellaine tried to ignore it.

“As it so happens, I think you might be of help to us, young mademoiselle,” the Archdeacon answered, his deep, rumbling baritone soft and soothing to her frayed nerves.

Madellaine smiled, a bit embarrassed, as if the father had somehow heard what was echoing through her mind. She always got the impression he knew the thoughts of others. Perhaps that was another part of being so wholly devoted to his life in the church. As a true Man of God.

“Y—yes, Your Grace,” Madellaine confirmed, exchanging a quick glance with Esmeralda, who still was looking thoroughly less than pleased, though she had no time to question it as she forced her gaze back to the deacon. “How may E—Esmeralda and I be of service?”

The Archdeacon was thoughtful for a moment before he spoke. “I would ask your service to this gentleman, milady. He has come to speak to Quasimodo.”

His words were like a knife in her heart. _Oh, god. Not that. Anything but that. Talk to me if they must, but not that. No_. Madellaine was suddenly concerned. Her senses became heightened, on high alert, as though Quasi were suddenly standing in the corridor alongside her and Esmeralda. “Is my affianced in any _danger_ , Your Grace?” she asked urgently, eager to provide any help she could.

“Not presently,” the Archdeacon reported, though a shadow of regret crossed the aging man’s weathered features as he continued. “The young monsieur here says that you two are…recently _acquainted_ , mademoiselle?”

“Wha…? Who…?” Madellaine’s voice trailed off as she lifted her chin as well as her gaze towards the cloaked stranger, who the moment the man lowered his hood, the poor blonde felt her stomach drop and her knees go weak.

She felt the fear well up within her, though despite the sudden onset of such a horrible uneasiness welling in the churning pit of her stomach in snaking its way up into her heart like a disease, she was not one to forget manners.

“Monsieur Frollo, how...surprising, to see you again. I did not...e-expect to see you here. What brings you here at such a late hour?” she murmured, a hint of displeasure seeping its way unbidden to the surface of her voice as she quickly ducked her head and gathered the skirts of her dress, and dipped into a simple, brief curtsy.

Now she could see why Esmeralda was so distraught. Her eyes went wide, and Madellaine was quite sure she looked as though she’d been punched in the gut.

Suddenly, Madellaine de Barreau wished for nothing more than the black and white checkered tile beneath their feet to open up and swallow her whole. The dread in her soft, shy, and quiet tone was obvious as she beseeched the old clergyman, who had noticed the expression on her face.

“Oh, Your Grace.” She cringed. “Oh, please, _no_.” The embarrassment on her face as it drained of color was unmistakable. She swallowed past a lump in her throat.

The Archdeacon furrowed his greying brows together in a quandary as his gaze wandered between the two drastically different women, though at the moment, the young women and good friends, perhaps even best friends since the two had gotten acquainted with one another, both shared the same thing in common: looks of exasperation.

“Is there a _problem_ , my child?” he questioned kindly, his own curiosity getting the better of him as he mulled over in his mind what on earth could possibly be causing both women such untold amounts of discomfort.

He could only assume the young woman’s uneasiness stemmed from the Judge’s younger brother’s presence, though the Archdeacon knew from personal experience that the man was not at all like Claude was.

Though why that was, the Archdeacon could not say, though the suspicion growing in his mind prompted him to ask of Jehan a question, as he noticed the handsome, refined nobleman studying the pair of women interestedly.

Madellaine’s expression was one of utter disbelief, and she knew by exchanging a brief, but a dark glance with Esmeralda, that her best friend felt the same as she did.

She looked _sick_ as she found herself directly in the piercing, hardened gaze of Jehan Frollo as a muscle in his strong, angular jaw gave a twitch, though he said nothing.

Surely, the Archdeacon was not at all _serious_. However, Madellaine had known few moments where the old Archdeacon of Josas was anything _but_ serious to her.

Jehan had come here to the cathedral…to see _him_? Madellaine could almost feel the man’s irritating leers burning holes through her, though she dared not look away. He seemed, at least at the moment, courteous enough, though Madellaine was not quick to forget how he had reacted towards her earlier this morning in the inn.

At least here under the church, she was protected under the laws of the sanctuary, and the man posed no threat.

It was his unguarded manner that she dreaded, and the fact that, judging by the look in the handsome fellow’s darkened, narrowed gaze, he had not forgotten the encounter, nor his behavior towards her earlier this morn.

She bristled, silently seething. Madellaine knew she had _no_ interest in going through anything quite like that again, and she could tell just by one look at Esmeralda’s piercing pale green irises, that her friend did not either.

“Y—Your Grace, I…” Madellaine started to say, though her voice cracked and faltered as she momentarily lost herself looking into Claude Frollo’s brother’s dark eyes.

She desperately wracked her brain for something to say, though before she could, Jehan Frollo inclined his head, looking towards the pair of women with an intensity.

“I hope that you will excuse my behavior towards both of you, young Mademoiselles,” Jehan began speaking in a smooth, languid voice as Esmeralda moved to stand beside Madellaine, the tip of her shoulder almost touching hers. “I hope that you can find it within your hearts to forgive me. I was…not myself last night or this morning.”

_Wait. Last night_? Madellaine’s eyes widened even more as she looked at Esmeralda out of the corner of her peripherals. _When did Esmeralda visit with Frollo_?

Too many questions were swirling around in her throbbing head, though before she could part her lips to so much as utter one syllable, Quasi’s father continued, not granting either young woman the opportunity to interject.

“Losing one’s brother does strange things to a man.” He hesitated, chewing on the wall of his mouth as he looked towards the stone stairwell that led to their tower. “I merely wish to get to know my son after all of these years, mademoiselle. To…make up for the lost time, if you will, milady. I can assure you that I understand how painful this meeting will most assuredly be for my young son, but nevertheless, I am aware of the risks and would like to _try_.”

Madellaine wanted to crawl away. “I…I… _why_?” she stammered, her voice sounding perplexed as she straightened her posture, brushing her hands on the skirts of her dress, looking at the man with raised thin eyebrows.

She was admittedly shocked by Frollo’s cordial demeanor, and from what she could tell by giving a quick scan of the man’s appearance and scrutinizing him, he did look, at least she was relieved to see, remorseful for how he had behaved towards her this morning. Perhaps she had misjudged him. She knew men grieved in strange ways, as did women. Old Sachette in the streets was proof of that.

Madellaine had expected a tasteless comment from the man standing in front of her and Esmeralda right now, or at the very least an overly familiar leer from those lips.

But it did not come, which only further added to her confusion. She swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat. “Y—you can find him up in the north bell tower.”

“You think that he will speak with me, then?” Jehan replied hastily, shifting his darkened gaze towards Esmeralda, who, if Madellaine wasn’t mistaken, cringed.

_Something_ had happened between the two of them, she was _sure_ of it, her intuition was buzzing like a hive of bees, telling the young blonde that something was amiss.

“You will help the young master, won’t you, milady?” The Archdeacon prodded kindly, following Madellaine and Jehan’s gazes as they looked at the stairs.

_No! No I won't_! is what she _wanted_ to say to the Archdeacon, though after all that the man had done for her, she could not very well refuse him now, so she swallowed back the urge to scream and nodded.

“I…yes, o—of course, Your Grace,” Madellaine stammered, her cheeks flushing high with color, though she tore her gaze away just in time to see the deacon nod.

“Good.” He turned towards Quasimodo’s father and inclined his head. “May God be with you, my son. He does not know that it was I who called for you, sent you here, and may it stay that way. I trust you shall be discreet?”

Madellaine felt the blood rush to her head as her mind struggled to catch up and process the Archdeacon’s words. She saw Jehan give a wordless nod by way of response, signaling to the aging clergyman that he would.

“Wait!” she called out, an arm outstretched in front of her as the Archdeacon turned on the heels of his sandals to go. “I—I don’t understand. _You_ sent for him, monsieur?”

She sounded wistful, almost somber as she stared at the Archdeacon’s backside. He’d walked about halfway down the length of the corridor when she called out to him.

He paused, shifting at the waist slightly, and turned to give the object of their church’s bell ringer’s affections a wistful, slightly saddened smile. “Yes, mademoiselle, as it so happens, I did, child. A man should know his father.”

The Archdeacon’s gaze drifted towards Madellaine, who was still looking utterly gobsmacked, as was Esmeralda. “I take it by your shared looks of discontent, you do not approve of my decision?” he queried lightly.

“N—no, sir,” Madellaine stammered, her eyes widening in abject horror in response to the deacon’s question, despite the fact it was clear he was not angry. “I—I did not mean it that way, I—it’s just that…that…” she paused, searching for her words, though none came to her.

Esmeralda, sensing her friend’s hesitation, stepped forward in the hopes of rectifying the issue, while at the same time also expressing the same reluctance in wanting to divulge the entire truth to the old clergymen regarding what the pair of women knew about Quasimodo’s father.

“It is merely that…we are… _concerned_ , Father, that such an emotional shock, an upheaval like this is the last thing that man needs so close to his wedding day, sir.”

He nodded in understanding. “I understand, Mademoiselles, truly I do, though you’ve nothing to fear from monsieur Jehan. He is quite kind and will treat the matter with the utmost respect, I can assure you of that.”

It was no use arguing. The women could tell the Archdeacon had made up his mind and they would have no choice but to assist in attempting to arrange an audience.

Though how well Quasi would take it, well…that was another matter entirely, though Esmeralda and Madellaine did not have a chance to speak to the clergyman further as he murmured a lowly, “Good night and God bless you and keep you,” under his breath and shuffled down the hallway.

Esmeralda huffed in frustration and decided to follow after the Archdeacon to see what could be done about attempting to reason with the clergyman in private.

She glanced towards Madellaine, not wanting to leave her friend alone with Claude’s brother, though at the same time, wanting to convey the urgency of her request, to appeal to the Archdeacon to convince the man to change his mind, torn between the two desires pulling her in opposite directions. She hesitated, biting down on her lip.

Madellaine, God bless the blonde, sensed the dark-haired Romani woman’s hesitations, and offered her a shy smile, and waved her away. “ _Go_ , Esmeralda. I will be fine.”

Esmeralda’s eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, though she was given no time to argue as she was waved away a second time. “Are you certain?” she asked, a note of distrust in her voice as her gaze flitted towards Jehan.

_Don’t you touch her, bastard,_ she thought, grinding her teeth, and narrowing her gaze. She knew Jehan saw it. She couldn’t be sure, but Esmeralda _swore_ she saw the edges of the man’s mouth tilt upwards in a teasing smirk, a fact that made her blood curdle sourly, growing cold. “I won’t be long, my friend. I promise to come back.”

Madellaine nodded and waited to speak until she heard Esmeralda’s footfalls fade as her friend made a beeline straight for the Archdeacon, jogging slightly to catch up to the clergyman of Notre Dame de Paris, before turning back to Jehan, who was regarding her, interested.

Staring at Esmeralda’s retreating figure, Jehan was completely unaware that his son’s pretty little bride was quietly observing him, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Esmeralda is very nice,” Madellaine said softly, snapping Jehan Frollo’s attention back towards her. She was doing her best not to showcase her displeasure at his sudden appearance here in the cathedral, but the lord could tell that he had betrayed his interest towards her.

“Yes, she _is_ very nice,” Jehan replied, somewhat begrudgingly as a series of memoirs of their time together flitted through the forefront of his mind, memories he would rather not dwell upon, as it hurt him too much.

Madellaine’s eyebrows knitted together, suddenly wanting nothing more than quiet and solitude. Her thoughts were reeling. Why had the Archdeacon not said?

If he had at least warned her, perhaps she could have done better to prepare herself. A part of her felt somehow betrayed and blindsided that the clergyman’s intentions, however well-meant, was _kept_ from her.

She noticed how the man’s gaze practically crawled all over Esmeralda’s backside in an interested, almost predatory manner, and she felt something ugly rise within herself. She did not want her friend to get hurt by this man.

“When I first arrived here to Paris and knew no one else, she helped me immensely, though she had no real reason to,” said Madellaine, her tone cautious, guarded. “She is a kind woman, a trait that unfortunately one does not encounter or appreciate often enough, though I think it safe to say that her _husband_ does. He’s a soldier,” she said.

She was careful to put as much emphasis as possible on the word ‘husband’ to ensure Jehan Frollo caught her meaning and was secretly pleased to see that her words had the desired remark as the man’s face splotched red.

“Yes, indeed, of course,” Jehan growled distantly as he stared intently at the youngest daughter of deceased warlord Lucien de Barreau.

His previous anger and embarrassment were quickly giving way to intrigue. This girl that his bastard accursed wretch of a son had mistakenly fallen in love with held an inward sort of keen intelligence and was very clearly perceptive about the goings-on of the world around her, and the people in it.

Jehan was quick to recognize that Lucien Barreau’s daughter did not boast about it as some women were prone. He’d only ever encountered one other woman with this certain quality, and she’d just disappeared from his line of sight in search of the Archdeacon. He snorted a bit.

“Do you think that my son would be up to receiving me if I go up to see him now?” Jehan inquired, unable to resist teasing the source of his son’s fascination a little bit. His entire plan hinged on the young mademoiselle trusting him, learning to open up to him, to become more comfortable around her. Jehan aimed to see this through to the very end.

“What?” exclaimed Madellaine sourly, raising her thin eyebrows as she looked up at Jehan Frollo in alarm.

Satisfied, the nobleman and lord smiled to himself as he neatly folded his arms behind his back and shifted his weight between his feet while he waited for the pretty little belle to continue. He had successfully caught her off-guard.

“If you…” repeated Madellaine, her voice fading as she processed Jehan’s words. After a moment’s silence, her sky-blue irises widened in abject horror, mouth slightly agape. “Oh, sir, right _now_? B—but it’s getting _late_ , and he…he won’t…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him.

Jehan stepped forward, still keeping his hands around his back, hoping it wasn’t coming off as predatory.

“Well, you know my son so _well_ , mademoiselle, considering the two of you are to be _married_ on Friday, are you not? I thought that perhaps you could accompany me up there,” interrupted Jehan, his languid voice smooth as a summer breeze. “It will look _better_ that way, at least, a lot better than if I were to barge up there unannounced, me, a stranger in his life. But if _you_ come with me, then there is a very slight chance that he might listen. I would like to help my son, Mademoiselle, if my son will allow me into his life.”

“But monsieur,” protested Madellaine as she grabbed hold of the side of her skirts and stepped forward towards Jehan, “I—there is every possibility by this late hour he would be _asleep_ , and well, why don’t I go ask the Archdeacon or Sister Alice if she would accompany you?”

Jehan let out an amused little chuckle before he could stop himself. “I really think that the best chance I have at reaching my son is if you come with me, milady.”

Jehan Frollo waited patiently as Madellaine de Barreau wrestled the internal conflict inside of her mind. Noting that the girl’s internal struggle was not going to cease tormenting the young woman any time soon, he spoke once more, this time in a much more sincere fashion. His tone had lost its slight teasing lilt that he had held moments before.

“Allow me to put it to you this way, little belle,” he began gently, leaning against the cold stone wall near their tower stairwell, as he folded his arms across his chest. “You would be doing a father an enormous favor, and should things go sour, I promise that I will bear the brunt of the blame as this is my idea in the first place. I swear it, that I won’t allow _you_ to take the blame, milady.”

“That’s what I’m _afraid_ of, monsieur, I don't know if you know this of your own son, but the man has...a bit of a temper, monsieur. A bad one,” she confessed, shooting him a pained expression that looked apologetic. Raising his eyebrows, Jehan couldn’t help but scoff a little in response to his quip. No wonder his bastard son was so visibly agitated.

This girl had the power to tear a man to pieces with just a single remark of overwhelming empathy for a man that she did not know. Jehan was beginning to doubt whether the blonde lass would indeed help him or not, but despite her initial reluctance and hesitancy, Barreau did accept Jehan’s request, though begrudging to do this at all.

As they climbed the stone stairwell that would take them to the north bell tower loft, Jehan knew the girl was nervous.

Beginning to feel a little guilty about the precariousness of the sensitive situation he had put Madellaine de Barreau in, the nobleman stepped forward and kept an arm held in front of the young woman, ensuring that he would be the first to bear eyes upon his young son, though he doubted the boy would come out.

As the seconds turned to minutes, Jehan turned to Madellaine’s side and spoke a few words of reassurance.

Though, almost the moment the two had begun speaking in low murmurs amongst themselves, a low, audible thumping noise came from behind the pair as they stood in front of the man’s carving table, causing Jehan to flinch in response to the sudden and unexpected gesture.

Jehan slowly turned at the waist and found himself looking face-to-face into the eyes of his son for the first time. He drew in a sharp breath and lifted his gaze, raking his eyes over the boy’s slightly misshapen features, though there was no mistaking those blue eyes burning with anger.

_Florika’s eyes_ , he thought wildly, glancing sideways out of the corner of his eyes at the young woman, who swallowed nervously and ducked underneath Jehan’s arm and stepped in between the pair of men in the hopes of calming down her affianced rapidly growing displeasure.

He searched his brain for something to say, and instead, found his mouth moving of its own accord, no longer taking directions from his own mind as he said the only thing that he could, the only phrase came to his mind.

“Hello, son. Aren’t you going to invite your father inside?”


	8. Don't Come Back

**8**

**QUASI** blinked at the stranger in his and Lena’s tower slowly, certain his eyes (and his ears) were deceiving him.

He looked towards Madellaine for confirmation, staggering backward, thankful that his carving table was behind him as his gloved hands groped for the edges of the table, using it as a brace. He felt the color drain from his face, thinking that this man in front of him could not possibly be his father. Both of his parents were dead.

Master Frollo had _said_ so, so what was going on? He opened his mouth to speak, to plead with Madellaine to tell him what was going on, but his lungs refused to fill with air, there were no words in his throat as his mouth opened and closed, sure he was making noises like a dying fish.

Quasi stared intently at the ghost in front of him for all intents and purposes. Was it _true_? Was this man really Jehan? His father was…he was _alive_.

_Oh, god, what_ , _how_? His mind reeled as it raced in uncontrollable directions. A coil in his gut twisted and lurched as his face paled and turned an interesting shade of green. He thought he was going to be horribly, horribly _sick_!

“I…” he stammered, looking towards Madellaine, and swallowing down hard past the lump in his throat, amazed he could even still find his voice, considering how breathless he felt.

She offered him a saddened yet sympathetic smile and took a cautious half-step forward between where Jehan Frollo and Quasimodo stood in hopes of alleviating the tension in the room between the two men.

“I…this man is the person who I ran into at the inn today, love,” she said softly, her quiet, kind voice flowing through the tower loft like a soft breeze.

Normally, it would have succeeded in calming Quasimodo’s frayed nerves, but tonight, it felt as though her voice had the opposite effect. How scared she sounded. Timid, almost, which made him wonder if Jehan had said something, done something to his love to _hurt_ her.

Quasi felt his entire body go weak and numb as the feeling left his limbs. Jehan Frollo took this opportunity of the younger man’s hesitations and silence to finally speak.

“I understand this is…a lot for you to take in right now. And I’m sure that you have _questions_ for me which I _will_ answer and soon,” he began speaking hesitantly, though there was a hint of smooth languid in the man’s voice that suggested to Quasi that his father—his father—knew what he was doing. “But…it’s _me_ ,” he urged lowly, his darkened eyes beseeching his son to set aside his doubts and believe him. “If you don’t believe _me_ , then listen to _her_.”

He gave his head a jerking motion towards Madellaine, who flinched and pursed her lips at the gesture, though her gaze remained pointedly fixated on her betrothed as she rushed towards his side and knelt into a crouch, resting his hands on top of his upper right thigh.

Her fingernails were gripping almost painfully tight on his leg, before one of her hands drifted upward and settled over the top of his gloved right hand, squeezing it hard. Eventually, the silence seemed to weigh too heavily to be ignored any longer.

Quasi swallowed and tried to battle the dryness of his throat, though to no avail, sadly. “Is it… _true_?” he managed to gasp out hoarsely, cringing at the rough, grating tones of his voice. He did not sound like himself at all, though he recognized he was attempting to battle the onset of salty liquid that threatened to escape from his eyelids if he couldn’t get a handle on his emotions. “Madellaine. Tell me the _truth_.”

She nodded. He couldn’t explain it, but the soreness and sadness of her gaze coupled with sympathy were almost too much for him to bear as Quasi looked into her eyes.

“The—the Archdeacon sent for Jehan, love. He…” she paused, lifting her gaze to look at Jehan before returning her attention back towards Quasi. “He thought that you should know your father, after all these years…”

Madellaine’s voice trailed off as she heard Quasi drew in a sharp breath that pained her heart to listen to.

_Seven…seven hells. It’s true. The bastard’s alive_. Quasi wished he could think of something stronger to say. His breaths were coming short. He barely heard Madellaine’s faint, concerned voice reaching his ringing, fatigued eardrums. His chest constricted and tightened.

For a moment, Notre Dame’s bell ringer actually thought he might faint. His blood pounded in his ears. The world was possible and unholy and awful. His father was alive. Madellaine, sensing danger, spoke up.

“Quasi, sweetheart, please don’t do something _stupid_ —” she started to say worriedly, rising to her feet, and staggering backward upon seeing the look of dawning outrage and shock on her fiancé’s rapidly paling features.

“Why did you _tell_ me this, Maddie, if not for me to _do_ something about it?” Quasi bellowed, throttling his urge to roar like an enraged dragon.

A hot fire seed of anger welled in his chest as he rose to his full height of 6’2 and seized on tufts of his fiery ginger hair and tugged on it so hard he swore he felt the roots scream in protest as he began restlessly pacing the floor in front of the two of them. His anger swept over the man like a black torrent.

He almost launched himself across the way at the man who stood next to _his_ heaven’s light, his wretched _father_. His father who’d been alive all this time, and had made zero attempts to find him, seemingly, until tonight.

_Why_?!? Too many questions swirled around in his exhausted mind and not enough answers. He picked up his chair and threw it across the room, ignoring Madellaine’s gasp of panicked surprise and Jehan Frollo’s admonishing shout of displeasure. Quasi was making a godawful, hair-raising horrible sound that belonged to neither man nor animal. An awful noise of betrayal and pain and utter agony that could have cut through the tension in the air like a knife.

He sank to his knees, his shaking gloved hands balling into fists as he pounded against the hardwood floorboard, again and again until his knuckles were white-boned from clenching them, though they stained crimson with his own blood as beadlets of blood began to form. Quasi wished he could tear his tower up, wishing he could tear out his wretched heart out, anything to make the pain and hurt and confusion _stop_ , just bloody stop it _now_.

Then Madellaine was gingerly kneeling beside him, trying to put a comforting arm over his shoulder, but Quasi ripped away from his love, not caring if he would be paying for this little outburst of his later when he had calmed down. He flung himself against the wall, screaming in ire.

In a rather prudent way, neither Madellaine nor Jehan attempted to go anywhere near Notre Dame’s bell ringer until the man’s storming, violent tempest had run its course. The pair of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder awkwardly, saying nothing.

At least, when Quasi knelt motionless, gasping raggedly, his beloved moved closer.

“I—I’m _sorry_ , Quasi, I—I know I should have told you. I—I didn’t _know_ he’d be coming, I—I thought that…if I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t get _hurt_ ,” she whispered faintly, laying a slightly shaking hand on the man’s bicep and tugging on his shirt sleeve. Sensing what she wanted of him, he swallowed past the bile in his throat and rose to his feet, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes, growling irately.

“A _strange_ way to make it up to me, Maddie, bringing _him_ here!” Quasimodo meant to shout it, but his voice was strangled and tight in his chest. It sounded hoarse. Weak, and raspy, like a thread had been shattered.

Madellaine swallowed hard, briefly looking towards Jehan for help. As much as there was something of her love’s father that unnerved her, she had promised the Archdeacon conversing with Esmeralda downstairs that she would help him if she could. “Quasi, I don’t—”

But just as she began to speak, Quasi’s eyes shifted towards Jehan, who had nudged beside her, his broad shoulder practically touching hers. As their eyes locked, Jehan could not help but smile to try to diffuse the tension.

His plan was going swimmingly so far. After a moment of heavy, uncomfortable silence, however, the bell ringer’s darkening cerulean blue eyes turned ice-cold as he shifted his gaze to glare at Jehan with no warmth, and after giving Madellaine a furious look, he turned on his heels to go, though he faltered in his footsteps the moment he heard the sound of a tin decanter being jostled, and the unmistakable sound of two chalices of wine being poured.

Quasi gnashed his teeth together, turning around and peering over his shoulder just in time to see the woman he was to marry on Friday pour three cups of wine, handing one to Jehan, keeping the other for herself, and taking a hearty swig to give herself a little liquid courage, he noticed, while proceeding to almost slamming his cup down on the edge of the table he’d almost overturned in his rage.

“What do you think you’re _doing_?” demanded the bell ringer hoarsely, and Jehan had noticed how hoarse his bastard son’s voice was, though Madellaine stayed still.

“ _Quasi_!” she exclaimed in an admonishing yet breathless sounding voice as she shot him a look of disappointment coupled with incredulity at his little display of anger he’d exhibited not even a minute go. She took another drink of wine before setting her cup down, nearly stumbling as she staggered, trying to maintain her balance. If the situation weren’t so serious, on any other occasion, Quasi might have chuckled at Madellaine’s inability to hold her wine, being something of a lightweight due to her tiny and petite frame, but he’d never felt in a sourer mood. “Jehan’s come a _long_ way to come see you. We can't just...turn him away! You should at least give him a chance and see what he has to say!" she protested in a weak voice.

“Did the _Archdeacon_ put you up to this?” Quasi growled through gritted teeth. “I can’t believe you had the gall to bring him up here, Maddie. What were you thinking?” he shouted. “He’s no _father_ of mine, Mads!”

Jehan looked at the red Italian wine swirling around in his own goblet, waiting for his son’s girl, to tell the truth.

“N—no, he—he _didn’t_ , Quasi, I brought him up myself. I only wanted to try to—” she started to say, though Madellaine was not given the chance to complete her thought as Jehan’s head whiplashed sharply upright in her direction, his lips parted open slightly in shock and awe.

Jehan could not help but stare at Madellaine de Barreau in shock. He had been expecting the young woman to lie because a young mademoiselle such as her, nobody as good as this girl would not lie. Yet, here she boldly stood, her heels of her boots digging firmly into the floor as she stood her ground against the worst of her soon-to-be husband’s rapidly swelling temper, refusing to tell Quasimodo that he had put her up to this, not the deacon.

Not wishing for his own bastard son to unjustly release his rage upon the girl whom he felt his son did not rightfully deserve, Jehan stepped in between the lovers.

“You _won’t_ scare me away, boy, not after seeing _that_ ,” Jehan barked in a rough voice of his own, the edges of his tone clipped and hardened in response to seeing the accursed wretch’s aggressive temper only seconds ago.

“Have you come to scorn and jeer at me, Father? To laugh at how hideous your only son is?” Quasi snarled.

Jehan shook his head incredulously, clucking his tongue in mock disappointment. The demonic younger man really was a lost cause if ever Jehan had seen one.

“I want to _help_ you, boy.” _Oh yes_ , he thought wildly, biting down on his bottom lip. _Help you by taking her away. You don’t deserve a lovely belle such as this one, son_. Quasimodo did not immediately reply, instead merely glowered at the pair of them through the darkness of his bell tower loft.

The flaring candlelight coming from the few candles lighted and scattered throughout their tower’s loft that Madellaine had lit to try to brighten the place up and provide whatever feeble warmth she could, splashed his face in a sideways fashion, masking the ‘deformed’ side of his left face.

One could say that, in the right light, Jehan Frollo’s son almost looked normal and almost handsome.

“Quasi, _please_.”

Jehan blinked as he stared down at Madellaine in utter astonishment, who’d taken another step forward and was now standing directly in front of the man she was to marry, beseeching him with wide, pleading, sky-blue, almond-shaped eyes that he could tell ensnared the wretch.

Madellaine de Barreau’s soft, shy, quiet voice had become instantly vulnerable. Not pleading, but somehow…intimate, and Jehan almost found he had to look away from the intensity of the young lovers’ gazes.

Although he could not see the expression on the girl’s face, Jehan could just about make out the bell ringer’s. “Just five minutes, Quasi, love. _Please_. That’s all.”

His son was looking almost hesitant as he stared across at Madellaine with a mixture of fear and fascination, as if for a brief second, the man had been magically whisked away, transported somewhere else, and had quite forgotten where he was, perhaps even who he was now.

The blue in his pale blue irises did not seem nearly as cold as something in his gaze softened as he looked at her. His son’s legs buckled, and the boy fell to his knees in front of Jehan.

To Jehan’s immense relief (though it should be noted that he was concerned for the young mademoiselle’s safety, not that of his own or the boy’s), his eyes grew softer, and he could almost see the love between this girl and his monstrous accursed disappointment of a son. Jehan could also read the unspoken confusion there.

With trembling fingers, he lifted his hand to Madellaine jaw, caressing her cheekbones as he kept his gaze fixated on the young blonde, before looking up towards where Jehan now stood towering over them.

“Y—you’re _alive_ ,” Quasi breathed in disbelief. For a moment, as unshed moisture glistened behind the boy’s blue eyes, Jehan repressed a sniff of disgust as he thought his own son would turn into a crying, weak sniveling mess.

Jehan said nothing by way of response.

“All this time?” Quasi breathed in hoarsely, while Madellaine’s slender fingers carded their way through his thick tuft of red hair as she continued to kneel on the floor beside him, whispering sweet murmurings into the shell of his ear in the hopes that it would calm the poor man down.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer could not yet find a voice for all of the quandaries that flitted circulating their way through his tormented mind, and not even the sweet sound of his love’s shy voice in his ear was calming him down.

As Quasi turned his head and looked at Madellaine, feeling her fingers move their way swiftly through his hair, stroking it in the way that he always liked that never failed to send a pleasant little shudder down his wretched spine, he saw himself standing on the balcony terrace with his Lena shortly after Claude Frollo’s death, mourning him.

Quasi felt again, the hollowed empty pit his heart had become watching Claude, the monster though he was, fall to his death. Frollo had been horrible to him yes, of that there was no denying, though the man had raised him, saved his life, even though now he knew it had been of fear.

He remembered his fear of going through life without a father figure by his side following Claude’s death.

And he could also recall the determination to make a life for himself and Madellaine beyond the label of a bastard wretch. When he looked back to Jehan, the softness that had previously been present in his eyes while staring at Madellaine promptly vanished from his gaze.

Quasi glowered bitterly at Jehan Frollo as his eyes narrowed. Jehan’s face too had lost its hopeful anticipation as he quickly realized his plan would take a little more finagling and be more difficult than he thought. Jehan watched the hatred paint his son’s twisted features as he shakily rose to his feet, gently shrugging out of Madellaine’s grasp, not looking at the young blonde. Quasi pulled his strong hand back angrily and loosed his godlike strength upon Jehan’s cheek as blue fire flashed indignantly in the man’s smoldering, burning gaze.

Jehan staggered, though he felt no pain from the boy’s slap. He couldn’t help the involuntary gasp of surprise that fled his lips as he pressed a hand to his face where his skin was rapidly coloring red from the sheer force of his bastard son’s blow. It had been a good hit.

“Quasi…” Madellaine started to plead, but her love was beyond the point of no return. She could see it herself.

Quasi was not about to let Jehan Frollo into his life. “ **GET OUT**!” Quasi seethed through gritted teeth.

Jehan shook his head, not wanting to leave and leave the young woman at this demon’s mercy and whims. “Please, son. Just let me _explain_ ,” he begged.

“ _Get out_!” Quasi screamed, beating at his father’s chest as he violently propelled the shorter man backward. He slammed his open gloved palms against Jehan’s jaw. Finally, he pushed his father as far from him and Madellaine as he possibly could, causing him to falter.

“Quasi, please, _don’t_ ,” Madellaine begged, trying to plead her case on behalf of the Archdeacon, her voice wracked with pain, but she didn’t know what else to say.

Notre Dame’s bell ringer knelt, defeated on the floor as the strength left his legs. His wary eyes searched Jehan’s face, looking for a reason that could justify what he’d done. “ _Get out_ ,” he sobbed, not bothering to stem his tears as he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head from Jehan. " _Go_. And _don't_ come back."

Jehan nodded, though his gaze was not fixated on that of his bastard son but on that of the girl’s. _Madellaine_.

The crushing sorrow and confusion that Jehan Frollo beheld in the young blonde’s gaze almost shattered a part of himself that he did not know he had left to break. He’d done this to her, all of it, when he’d meant no harm. Well. Not to _her_ , at least. He would torment his son no longer.

If the two needed him gone this night, he’d go. His plan would just have to come to fruition some other way.

At this moment, however, Jehan would give Madellaine de Barreau the only peace that he could offer. His absence. Jehan backed towards the stairwell, unable to take his eyes from the young woman who was captivating him more and more, the longer he spent around her. He wanted nothing more than to gather the young woman in his arms, a furrowed frown creasing his brow. She was off with this bastard who didn’t deserve her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, silently vowing to himself to come back for her, a new plan beginning to formulate in his mind before he disappeared down the tower stairwell and making his way towards the doors of the cathedral, leaving Madellaine and Quasimodo alone in the tower loft.

Quasi remained in a kneeling position on his knees, his mind reeling. His father was alive. Jehan had been alive. While he’d gone his entire life thinking his parents were dead, his father was yet living, drawing in breaths.

Surely, that had meant his father had not wished to be with him, to know his own son in his life, had never wanted him. But why had Jehan sought him out right now? What purpose did he have by revealing himself two nights before his wedding? Quasi could not answer the questions that taunted his mind, howling at the man in ire. Screaming at him for answers, but right now, the only thing he wanted was her. _Just_ her. Madellaine, for her part, wrapped her body around Quasi as if she could protect the man she loved from the unseen ghosts and the doubts that plagued her love’s heart, body, and soul.

She held to the man she loved like a beacon in a storm, and stayed with him all throughout the night, still and unmoved from that spot, while he wept for his father.


	9. You, Again?

**9**

**ESMERALDA** could not ever remember the Archdeacon of Josas being so…so… _stubborn_ , for lack of a better word.

She shifted from one foot to the other as she stood in front of the Archdeacon, wondering why it was that he refused to accept the truth. She knew exactly what was going on. The man had been blinded by Jehan’s charms, his mannerisms, and his wit. Had been bewitched.

Esmeralda glared up at the Archdeacon but did not speak. Instead, she waited for the older gentleman to speak first, which, finally, after a moment of merely observing her in silence, he did. “Might I inquire as to the _reason_ , child, that you harbor such hostility for Jehan?” he questioned, sounding on the brink of being impatient and annoyed.

She paused, wracking her brain for something to say.

“I—I know this must be _difficult_ for you to accept as fact, Your Grace,” she began, unable to remember when the last time was that she felt so horribly awkward and wretched. “But that man upstairs with your church’s bell ringer and his affianced is _not_ a good man, despite what he seems. I cannot _prove_ it, but I think he means to harm Quasi, and I think it’s a grave mistake to leave him alone unsupervised with your church’s bell ringer, monsieur, please believe me,” she began, hating that she sounded desperate, and regretting it instantly the words were out of her mouth as she looked upon the man’s shocked expression as his lips pursed into a thin, unmovable line.

“That is a _very_ serious accusation, my child,” he interjected, his deep baritone voice sounding more and more impatient with Esmeralda’s claims as time went on.

Just as Esmeralda was about to stomp her foot in frustration and tug on the roots of her hair and falling just short of dropping at the Archdeacon’s feet and imploring the man of God to see reason, a noise from behind caused her hearing to perk up, and she could tell by the sound of the man’s footfalls that Jehan had descended the stairwell.

“La Esmeralda. How _pleasing_ to see you again, dove,” Jehan spoke, remaining unmoved from his spot, though she swore she felt his hot breath waft down her neck.

It took all of Esmeralda’s resolve not to turn around and throw up on him, though it quickly became apparent she’d get no help from the deacon here as he sensed Claude’s younger brother wished to talk to Esmeralda alone, and bid them a soft goodnight and a “God bless” and walked off, leaving Esmeralda alone in this holy House of God with just the likes of Jehan Frollo for company, then.

All she needed to do was turn around. But for what felt like several excruciating long moments, she couldn’t. Esmeralda felt her hands go numb as her mind suddenly discerned that this was not another phantasm that her sometimes-overactive imagination had conjured. No. Jehan was _really_ here, in the flesh, like it or not. Then, realizing that she could not ignore the Judge’s younger brother and her former lover forever, she pivoted slightly at the waist to face the man now towering over her.

The blood roared and pounded in her throbbing eardrums as she found herself yet again, for the second time in one night, face-to-face with Lord Jehan Frollo, alive and well (much to her disgust and chagrin) standing but a few feet in front of her. Her gasp seemed to reverberate and echo off the walls around them, caused by Esmeralda’s ire.

The moment Jehan took a seemingly cautious step towards her, Esmeralda reacted by backing away. “ _Don’t_.”

She ordered him, hardening her facial expression as well as that of her voice, hoping the hint of steel laced throughout her tone as it seeped its way to the surface would be more than enough to convey her meaning to him. Esmeralda emanated a tense exhale and slowly righted her posture, lifting her gaze and her chin, jutting it out slightly defiantly, hoping her face was a mask of calm serenity and her eyes betrayed none of her anger or fear.

“You came back. I take it then by the nature of your short little visit up there, it didn’t go so well. I guess it didn’t, or you would not have come back down so soon,” Esmeralda asked Jehan dryly. Her mind struggled to comprehend what it was on God’s green earth that Jehan could want of Quasi. She also struggled to understand how it was that she had once dared to love this monster now standing affront her, looking humbled, though a hint of something darker lurking underneath the surface of his narrowed dark eyes. “What do you want with Quasi? I take it's not for the sheer pleasure of enjoying his company...” she snapped in a sardonic tone laced to the brim with sarcasm.

There was a time, Esmeralda knew, when she would have given anything for Jehan to stand alongside her, but now, as she resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust, all she wanted was Phoebus’s strong reassurance that he still loved her, despite the unpleasant truth Esmeralda revealed to him earlier that perhaps had ruined their marriage. How was that it, she mulled, that you could _love_ someone and _hate_ them at the same time for everything?

“Why did you not tell the boy I was alive?” Jehan asked Esmeralda, startling her, and catching her off guard.

Esmeralda pursed her lips into a thin line and narrowed her eyes until they were mere slits as she eyed him indignantly. “ _This_ is the thanks I get for saving you?” she remarked, her voice equal parts hurt and offended.

Jehan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “ _Saving_ my life, La Esmeralda, or _ruining_ it?” he questioned her, spitting his words more than speaking them, his voice livid with blame.

This time, Esmeralda did stomp her foot, a temporary release of frustration, and huffed in indignation, folding her arms across her chest. “You didn’t need my help for that, Jehan, you did a fairly good job of the latter all on your own.” Esmeralda lowered her gaze at her ex-lover, now regarding Jehan Frollo with no small measure of spite.

She walked slowly and deliberately towards the kitchens, hoping she could find an apple to nick or a not-so-hardened loaf of bread. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Esmeralda shook her head, wishing with all of her might that Jehan would turn on the heels of those fancy black leather boots of his and walk right out of the church.

“Do you _honestly_ believe that Quasi would just, what, welcome you with open arms after all of this time?” she rebuked, glancing sideways at Jehan out of the corner of her eyes. “Besides,” she snapped. “ _You_ left _me_ , Jehan. You just disappeared one day without telling me where. You didn’t tell Clopin, not Gwen, anybody else why you left. What was I _supposed_ to do? I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. Quasi thought you were dead for his entire life. Would it have been better for his heart to shatter twice?”

She sincerely hoped Jehan would see her logic, but she doubted it. She shook her head sharply.

“Don’t you _dare_ try to pin this on me, Frollo. Do _not_ ,” Esmeralda refuted. “You’d not be in this mess at all if you’d merely done the smart thing in this regard and stayed _away_!”

Esmeralda stood by the door that led into the kitchens, though she made no move to enter, pleased to see, at least, that Jehan was growing uncomfortable underneath her accusatory and emotionless glower that succeeded in making the awkward moment between the two ex-lovers only worse. She’d hoped never to see him again.

“What do you _want_ with your son?” she asked again. “I don’t understand. If what you truly want is to make amends with the boy, then why seek him out two days before his wedding? What are you planning, Frollo?”

“I cannot let that wretch of a bastard son of mine marry the girl, Esmeralda,” Jehan spoke up, the edges of his deep voice hardened as his _gaze_ narrowed at Esmeralda. “It is _uncouth_ , and unlawful in polite society. I had hoped that if I were to speak with the young mademoiselle, the girl would come to her senses. I do not wish to harm my son, but if the bastard leaves me no other choice, then I will do what I must to stop it happening.”

Esmeralda bristled, gnashing her teeth together in anger, and immediately began to take offense to her former lover’s judgmental and disgusted tone as he spoke of his son. She straightened and fixed Jehan with a disbelieving look.

"This is his _home_ , Jehan. And Madellaine’s as well,” she added, quickly correcting him before he made it worse. “This is where that girl will live with your son, her husband, on Friday and where maybe one day, their children, too. You would truly seek to uproot Barreau from the life she’s made for herself? Are you really _that_ pathetic?” she hissed.

Before Jehan could so much as find his voice and open his mouth to reply, the sound of a dagger being pulled from its sheath reached his eardrums, and a short but deadly sharp blade flashed in front of his eyes, before coming to rest at the column of his throat, in front of his Adam’s apple, and a strong arm gripped his waist behind.

“What are you doing with _my_ wife?” came the unmistakable growling rasp of the golden-haired Sun God, newly reinstated Captain of the King’s Archers, Phoebus de Chateaupers himself as he held the noble lord at bay.

Phoebus had violently wrenched Jehan’s arms behind him and looked like he wanted nothing more than to run his blade through the younger man’s throat, though was halted in his movements by the sound of her calling out to him, her sweet, shy voice reaching his eardrums.

“Phoebus,” Esmeralda breathed as she called out to her husband, relieved that her husband had come for her.

She had secretly hoped that he would, that he would be willing to listen to her apology and understand that while Phoebus may not have been her first lover, he was certainly her last. “I’m fine, Phoebus,” she said, smiling adoringly at her husband, quickly moving to try to intervene. “But you can lower your blade. Jehan was just leaving. He will _not_ be disturbing Quasi or Madellaine or myself the rest of the duration of his stay here in Paris.”

She turned and looked deeply into Phoebus’s blazing hazel eyes. His soul immediately began to wallow in the calm that he had so desperately missed since Esmeralda had fled from their home, misunderstanding his words.

Esmeralda eyed Phoebus and gave a brief incline of her head. The Sun God merely grunted in response but reluctantly lowered his knife from Jehan’s throat, keeping it aimed at his ribcage just in case Claude’s brother tried anything with his wife. Nestled deep within the confines of her heart and mind, there lay dormant an old, festering rawness, a hurt that caused Esmeralda to want to fly into a rage at Jehan, that if he had truly loved her, he’d not have left, but in a way, if he hadn’t then she’d not have Phoebus.

Part of her wanted to laugh in Claude’s brother’s face, and another part of her wanted to allow Phoebus to unleash his wrath and fury upon Jehan, right here, right now. “I suggest that you _leave_ now, Jehan,” Esmeralda spoke, and there was a note of finality bordering in her cold voice that told him he would be wise to follow her advice, particularly now that the captain was back by her side. “I don’t know _what_ brought you to Paris, and I don’t know _what_ you hope to accomplish by thinking you can prevent your son’s marriage, but we _won’t_ let you do this to him. He’s suffered _enough_ , and there is nothing for you here.”

Jehan stiffened by way of response to Esmeralda’s cold words, looking as though he was not going to budge, though upon seeing Phoebus move to stand protectively alongside Esmeralda, relinquishing his grip upon Jehan’s arm, he knew this was a fight he’d be foolish to start now.

His plan to get his son away from the young blonde lass upstairs required a bit more subtlety and finesse. Jehan lowered his head respectfully in the church and left.

Despite his feelings of resentment, he could not help but regard Esmeralda with awe and begrudging respect. She had openly declared her identity as Captain de Chateaupers’ wife proudly, almost with as much conviction as the words that she had used to whisper into the shell of his ear when they were lovers, meant for him and him alone. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave his head a curt shake to clear it, forcing the memoirs of their time together from his mind, seeking to bury it in the past.

It did not matter anymore. She was his past. He needed to look ahead to his future. And his future, he resolutely decided as he stalked his way out of the church, was the Barreau girl upstairs. He would take the girl for himself. He could not allow his bastard wretch to marry her and ruin the poor child’s life when it had only begun.

Jehan did not bother to look behind him as he stalked out of the cathedral, his mind already formulating a plan in his mind to take care of _her_ before it was too late.


	10. I Still Love You

**10**

**ESMERALDA** swallowed nervously, watching Jehan leave, and didn’t tear her gaze away from the front set of cathedral doors until they slammed shut behind in Jehan’s wake. Somewhat reluctantly, she tore her gaze away from the front doors and awkwardly lifted her gaze to meet Phoebus’s, who, she was admittedly pleased to see, was looking just as embarrassed as a hot embarrassment and shame marred his handsome, chiseled features and pinked at his cheeks as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, seemingly searching his mind for what to say to her.

“I…” Esmeralda started to say, though her voice trailed off as she met her husband’s kind hazel eyes, which were softening the longer he stared at her, so she could only take that as a good thing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped out at last, surprised that she could even find her voice at all.

As she lifted her gaze to better look her soldier boy in the eye, her face flushed even more as she realized her Sun God was…smiling at her. Almost beaming from ear to ear. She looked around at the otherwise deserted and dimly-lit cathedral, save for the two of them standing in the main sanctuary close to the front doors, wondering what on God’s green earth Phoebus could have to smile about.

She furrowed her brows in a frown. “Does this place really make you that happy, Phoebus?” Esmeralda looked at her husband with confusion as her brows came together in worry as she pursed her lips into a thin and rigid line.

“Mm? Just the memory of it?” Phoebus chuckled as he returned his gaze towards his wife, having been caught staring at the beauty of the giant stained glass window that depicted a rose. But as he looked at Esmeralda, his expression hardened and grew intensely serious as their eyes locked and had a private conversation all on their own. “It’s the first place that I ever saw you, Esmeralda. Outside of the festival, I mean,” Phoebus quickly explained.

The light blush that speckled along his wife’s cheeks was worth his words of sincerity, Phoebus could tell, and he was glad and grateful that he solemnly meant every word. Suddenly shy, Esmeralda bit down on her bottom lip and looked towards the black and white checkered tile beneath their feet, blushing like mad around her captain.

His mention of the recollection of the first time he had laid eyes on her up on the balcony outside of Quasi’s tower loft brought the image quite clearly to the forefront of her mind. She saw again, how transfixed he’d stood when he’d more or less shoved a lighted torch in her face, having been summoned by Judge Frollo to escort her out of the church. She’d found the captain’s flirtatious manner more than a little annoying then.

But now that she was the man’s wife, she couldn’t understand why she’d been unable to see the amazing depths of Phoebus’s feelings behind his attempts (truly pitiful ones at that) at flirting with her, and why she had fought so hard, in the beginning, to push him away, that she as an outcast was too poor and dangerous.

Esmeralda’s shy demeanor suddenly disappeared and was replaced by the beginnings of a soft, hopeful smile at the idea of a tentative reconciliation between her husband and herself. She hoped to make him understand.

His face registered his pleasant surprise as he had clearly come to the cathedral not expecting to find his wife still asleep. He reached out and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. Esmeralda was shocked to see Phoebus, but not altogether displeased.

In fact, she felt grateful. If he hadn’t come when he had, there was no telling what Jehan would have done, either to her or to Quasi and Madellaine if she had been unable to stop him herself in what he was planning. It vexed her that she didn’t know what he wanted, but the only thing she could assuage her guilt for her part in all of this was that Frederic had promised there would be guards two nights from now during the ceremony. That was as good as it was going to get.

“Come home?” Phoebus asked, unable to keep the note of hope from seeping into his voice as he motioned towards the door. Esmeralda nodded eagerly by way of response as Phoebus placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the doors, out of the cathedral, and down the street.

The pair didn’t speak much until they reached their simple two-roomed hut just on the outskirts of the city. He could think of no better way to end the evening than sitting by the fire with his wife. He had other thoughts as well, but Phoebus knew Esmeralda needed to speak whatever was on her mind about Jehan.

And this time, he vowed silently to himself as much as Esmeralda, he promised to listen and not get angry.

Phoebus wanted nothing more out of this night than to reconcile with his wife and spend a passionate night in her arms. But he could sense that Esmeralda was still bothered by what had transpired between Jehan, and about being patient, and forced his deepest desires to the back of his mind for now. There was time for that later.

He would have to simply be satisfied to just be near his wife for now. Once inside their simple home, Esmeralda turned and waited for him while Phoebus secured the door.

He removed their cloaks, draping the garments over a chair. She watched her husband, savoring her golden-haired Sun God’s every lithe and graceful movement as he walked. Esmeralda could not remember the last time she felt so nervous around Phoebus. The last time was…was…

She swallowed down hard. She’d rather _not_ think about it. Encouraged by the closeness that she shared with her husband and eager to show Phoebus de Chateaupers how she felt, that her heart truly did belong to him and always would, Esmeralda couldn’t stand the distance between them anymore.

As he turned from their marriage bed to pour them each a chalice of wine to soothe their nerves, she crossed the room and planted her feet firmly in front of him, halting her soldier boy’s momentum and catching the man off-guard by the boldness of her move.

Grabbing onto Phoebus’s biceps with trembling hands, Esmeralda braced herself to Phoebus and leaned in, so her hands were practically splayed against his chest.

“I—I’m sorry, Phoebus. I missed you,” she declared boldly. Unsure and completely disbelieving of her own actions, she held Phoebus’s face in her hands and pressed her lips to Phoebus’s, and passionately kissed her husband.

Phoebus stood rooted to the floor, unable to move, much less react, the little world of their home feeling like it was spinning, causing his head to reel, as he tasted her sweet kiss. He was admittedly shocked, yes, though he did not want to take any risks. Even if he was a hundred percent certain that he was who Esmeralda wanted to be with, he had to be certain. He barely brought his lips to hers. He was utterly terrified of making a wrong move with his wife, considering the nature of how their conversation had gone tonight.

Phoebus prayed Esmeralda wouldn’t misinterpret his reaction, but he realized with a sinking heart as it dropped to the pit of his stomach that she had.

It did not take Esmeralda long to realize that Phoebus wasn’t reacting to her kiss. Stunned, shaken, and more than a little hurt, she pulled back from their embrace, searching Phoebus’s brimming hazel eyes. Her stunned expression as her face drained of colors registered the confusion and hurt that was plain in her eyes as was the nose on her face and she drew her hands away from his face and brought them up to cover her mouth, turning away. Horrified by what she had done and the realization of her actions, that her husband might still be furious with her, Esmeralda could only stare at Phoebus in abject fear.

She stood there numb for several moments before ducking her head and allowing her dark hair to fall in front of her face like a curtain, hoping to hide her shame from him. “I’m sorry, Phoebus,” Esmeralda begged, utterly mortified, her breaths escaping her lips as a hoarse croak.

She was inexplicably and suddenly hit with a desperate need to run and turned on her heels to flee from the golden-haired soldier boy a second time in one night, though Phoebus did not give Esmeralda a chance to leave.

As she moved to head towards the door, Phoebus gingerly caught Esmeralda’s wrist and lightly pulled her back, turning her by her shoulders in order to face him.

“Don’t leave,” he practically beseeched his wife. “I’m the one who should apologize to you, Esme. I hurt you by not listening to what you had to say tonight. I’m sorry.”

She pulled away, her pale green irises red and watery, cracked at their edges, joy, and fury equally battling on her pallid face hoping to emerge the victor on her face.

Phoebus’s breaths caught in his throat and hitched at the unexpected sight before him, and the next thing the Sun God knew, he was blinking back briny tears of his own.

It was the last thing he’d planned to do in front of his wife, but then again, Esmeralda was the only one in his life who he allowed seeing him so open and exposed. So vulnerable. “I’m sorry,” Phoebus choked out, trembling as he took in his wide-eyed wife as she studied his features.

“For what?” Esmeralda accused, but her husky tone was lacking the bite that it should have had as she stared at him, wide-eyed and blinking as she backed away from him. “ _I’m_ the one who hurt _you_. I…” her voice cracked and dipped as it faltered as it looked away. “When I was…with Jehan, years ago, I…I gave something away the morning after I met him. It was something I should have kept, that should have been yours,” she confessed, shooting Phoebus a pained look, surprised to see a mask of calm serenity on his face.

She wasn’t sure if she should be concerned or not.

Taking a deep breath, Esmeralda began her confession slowly, not sure how Phoebus would react at all to her news. She was utterly mortified and red in the face but could no longer tolerate her husband’s adoration of her as he came up behind her and snaked his arms around her waist. Esmeralda felt unclean and not worthy of Phoebus.

“What is it, love?” Phoebus did not understand.

She reddened with embarrassment and hot shame as she swallowed down past the constricting lump in her throat. “My…my…maidenhead,” she whispered, horrified.

Now Phoebus was even more confused and quirked a blond brow at his wife. “Your what?” he questioned, confused. The soldier had never heard such a word before.

_Oh my God, could tonight possibly get any worse?_ Esmeralda sanguinely lifted her chin and met Phoebus’s confused stare with her eyes. “Before that night, I was a…I’d never…loved a man in…in that way, Phoebus…”

Her green eyes were practically begging her husband to understand so she wouldn’t have to continue.

Phoebus continued to watch Esmeralda in silence for a moment, a baffled expression still plastered across his face. Then in an instant, he reeled backward slightly, as though Esmeralda had just doused him in ice-cold water.

“Oh.” He smiled, and much to Esmeralda’s surprise, he began to laugh. Esmeralda’s pained expression turned into a confused look of her own as she could merely watch.

Phoebus merely pulled Esmeralda closer to him and wound his arms around her waist. “I don’t care who got to you first, Esme,” he murmured throatily, kissing her temple, pulling back to look his wife straight in her eyes. “As long as I’m the last.” It was his hazel eyes that now pleaded with Esmeralda. “You know I’d have waited a thousand lifetimes to be with you. Make me your last…”

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

“I’m still scared,” Esmeralda confessed, it seemed important that her husband understood this fact. “I—I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been in my entire life, Phoebus. Jehan isn’t like Claude. He’s _worse_. He’s…more dangerous. He’s good-looking, charming, polite when the mood strikes, and that makes him more volatile and unpredictable. You—you can’t see it when he’s angry, but I think that he means to hurt Quasi and do something to her. To Madellaine. I’m _scared_ for her, Phoebus. She—she’s not like us. She’s too _naïve_ , too _trusting_!” She swallowed, not wanting to speak ill of her friends in this way, but she felt there was no other way to make Phoebus see the urgency.

“We’ll handle him, sweetheart,” Phoebus promised her as he closed his eyes and rested his chin on top of her hair. “Let Frederic and I handle the bastard. He’s not going to get near you or Madellaine or Quasi. I can promise that. It’s not okay yet, but just because it isn’t okay yet doesn’t mean that it never will be,” Phoebus told Esmeralda, and that was fine. That was as it should be, after what she’d confessed.

To her surprise, her Sun God cupped her jaw with one hand and forced Esmeralda to meet his hardened gaze. “I _don’t_ want you getting any ideas of going after him,” he growled, a low little warning note in his tone. “I know that you and he were _close_ once, but if what you tell of me is true, then please let Frederic and I handle him.”

Esmeralda nodded. She didn’t know what else to say, but Phoebus did not give her a chance as he pressed his lips to hers, before pulling apart to study her expression. “Love, me wife?” he murmured huskily in a low voice, the edges of his lips curling up into a small half-smile as he leaned in close until she could feel his hot breath on her face. Her own lips parted open slightly in anticipation.

Her lips met his with fervor as she felt herself gingerly being propelled back towards their marriage bed. For the rest of the night, they did not leave the bed.

Esmeralda eventually fell asleep, but not Phoebus. Instead, he was more than content to hold onto his wife while the young woman slept in his arms, her legs entangled with his, her head nestled comfortably against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. In the pitch-black darkness, he stroked Esme’s raven-black hair, thinking back to the experience the two of them had just shared with one another.

Never in his lifetime did he think himself worthy of love, much less finding it in a girl who would dare to look past his womanizing past and want to be with him, or that the woman in his arms would feel so deeply for him. Esmeralda, the beautiful dancer, had stumbled into his life by pure happenstance. And now, she was perhaps the best and most beautiful thing ever to happen to him.

Truly, God worked in mysterious ways. Perhaps He had sent Phoebus Esmeralda to allow the young woman to pull him out of his desolate existence after a lifetime of wars.

Whether that way was God’s or Esmeralda’s influence, he didn't know, nor did he particularly care about it. He was just grateful to have someone to share in his life now, thinking that one of the first places he wanted to take her when the sun broke over the horizon was for a walk in the woods, maybe followed by a late afternoon trip to check on Quasi and see how the kid was faring after his father’s surprise little visit up to his tower loft tonight.

It was this single thought that accompanied Phoebus all throughout the night, and that eventually lulled him to sleep, thinking he would do whatever it took to protect this young woman in his arms whom he loved more than his own life from Claude’s younger brother if need be, and the rest of the cruel world.

For he was hers. And she was his. And Phoebus wouldn’t have it any other way.


	11. Wanted for Mercy

**11**

**MADELLAINE** wound her way through the streets of the bustling marketplace the following morning, in a daze and her vision clouded, the causation of which was not having gotten adequate sleep the night before, having stayed up all night with Quasi, trying to provide what little comfort she could. Not that she was confident it did the man any good. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and ducked underneath the outstretched arm of a vendor showcasing pretty necklaces and other baubles for sale.

She was lost in a daze, not really paying attention to her surroundings when she let out a startled yelp as she accidentally barreled over something hard and lean. She felt the color creep to her cheeks, a fiery heat scorching her face rapidly, and staggered backward and immediately sank into a low curtsy, though her face flushed even more as the man’s towering figure turned and looked upon her with no sense of shame or amusement. She froze.

Her eyes fell upon the unmistakable figure of Lord Jehan Frollo, her face registering what could only be described to the man as a look of dawning outrage as the blood slowly left her cheeks and her face paled as her lips pursed into a thin, rigid line.

The shock dissipated as she stood there, her finger wound tightly around the rope straps of the linen drawstring sack she wore over her back as she oft did whenever she would do her morning shopping at the marketplace. She had been intending on hightailing it back to the bell tower with the intentions of making Quasi fried bread to eat with an egg or two in the hopes it might improve his mood, but now all she wished for was the cobblestoned street beneath her boots to open up and swallow her whole, anything so that she could be whisked away from the man who made her feel incredibly uneasy and nervous the longer she spent around him.

She couldn’t explain it. But right now, the only thing Madellaine could focus on was her abject fury.

Madellaine reddened in anger as she recollected how her beloved father had more or less coerced her and the Archdeacon into granting him access to their living abode and had attempted to force his way into Quasi’s life. She still wasn’t sure what the man’s motives were, but they weren’t good.

The young blonde sucked in a sharp breath of cool morning air that pained her lungs surprised she was able even to manage to get a good breath in through the stunned, almost paralyzing anger that surged through her veins, venting itself as adrenaline. It felt that all eyes in the marketplace were upon her and fixated on the two figures standing smack dab in the middle of the street, waiting to see how she would react, though of course, most Parisians, save for the select few she was on friendly terms with, like the baker, barely gave the young blonde lass so much as a second glance and merely shuffled along with their business.

The best Madellaine could manage at this point was to shoot Jehan Frollo a truly contemptuous look as she shoved past him, making sure to jostle the man’s shoulder as hard as she possibly could in the process, making a beeline straight for the baker’s shop to see Jacques, to finally get the man to take her shillings and farthings that she’d earned by helping the official caretakers of the cathedral with odd jobs here and there whenever she could, mostly working in the kitchens or helping to clean the nave.

Jehan stood rooted to his spot, only for a moment, staring intently at the object of his bastard demonic son’s affections, who looked as though she wished for nothing more than to turn into ashes, when the man’s imaginings were interrupted by a startled yelp from a nearby vendor, just across the way from the baker’s shop that Madellaine de Barreau had been about to duck into, when a child’s scream, that of a young boy’s, gave the girl pause.

“ **STOP THAT BOY**!”

Old Man Mansart who ran the apple cart at the northeast corner of the marketplace bellowed at the top of his lungs as he hobbled down the street as fast as he could, chasing an energetic blond-haired little boy, surely no older than five or six, Madellaine noticed, all while gasping and heaving to catch his breath, clutching at a stitch in his side.

He paused when Madellaine caught his eye, though before the young blonde could react to his stare, the bell ringer’s affianced shot out an arm and caught the squirming, squalling boy by his arm.

“He yours?” growled the apple vendor, shooting the young five-year-old a truly withering look before shifting his narrowed, leery gaze up to meet Madellaine’s.

But Madellaine’s attention was fixated solely on the young boy, in his other hand not currently caught in a vice grip by her right hand to prevent the boy from rabbiting off, which is what he looked like he wanted to do. The boy flinched and blushed under the intensity of the young blonde’s gaze. The kid couldn’t be sure, but he could the impression that the lady who’d caught him was doing some very quick thinking as her blue eyes threatened to bear a burning hole straight into his green irises.

At last, Madellaine tore her gaze away from the boy and felt a muscle in her jaw and behind her lid give a twitch as she molded her suspicious features into a look of apology, hoping it would fool the apple vendor. She inclined her head and dipped into her bag to procure a single farthing, hoping to supplicate him some and quell the man’s temper, if she could.

“I’m terribly sorry, monsieur Mansart, he’s my….” She paused and took a look at the boy’s golden-blonde hair, not unlike that of her own, really. “Young brother,” she finished at last, albeit lamely, and bit down on her bottom lip and hope he bought the bald-faced lie. “I _apologize_ for any mischief he caused,” she spat through gritted teeth, and her fingernails curled even tighter around his forearm.

The boy let out a pained little whimper, though immediately relented and ceased his attempts to break free the moment Madellaine shot a withering look his way, and he fell silent. The man who ran the apple cart gave the coin in his palm a quick once-over, grumbling under his breath before he turned on his back and walked away from her.

“Mind your brother, wench! The next time, I'll not be so lenient!” he barked by way of a farewell, murmuring a few choice words that neither Madellaine nor the six-year-old dared to repeat at all.

Once the apple vendor was well out of earshot, Madellaine was all too well aware of Jehan’s presence as the dark-haired nobleman crept closer, seemingly hellbent on listening into her conversation. Sensing the young lad’s nervousness, she knelt into a crouch.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her quiet, shy voice almost instantly soothing to the boy’s nerves.

“Z—Zephyr,” he managed to gasp out in a breathless little squeak, suddenly terrified to revert his gaze.

He did not want to look into the pretty lady’s icy-blue eyes and see the disappointment in them, or the anger, sure she was to scold him for stealing the apple. But he’d been hungry and had no coin until that strange man had given him some, but only on the condition he steals an apple from the cart, and the man had hundreds of delicious-looking red apples. Zephyr hadn’t thought he’d miss one.

The young blonde pursed her lips, looking to the left and right before returning her attention back to the boy whose name she now knew to be Zephyr.

“Parents?” she questioned, lowering her voice, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach as the boy swept a lock of golden hair out of his eyes and shook his head no, still actively avoiding her gaze by keeping his eyes planted firmly on his torn boots.

“No, mum,” he murmured, a pink blush speckling along his cheeks as he continued to seem to be afraid to meet her gaze, not wanting to get in trouble.

Madellaine had been afraid of this. She let out a tired sigh and relinquished control of the boy’s arm and pinched at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as though fighting off the beginnings of a splitting headache. She couldn’t very well let this boy alone on the streets to fend for himself. The _next_ time this boy, Zephyr, stole an apple or God forbid, something else, she might not be around to cover for him and help this boy if that happened. Other vendors would not be quite as kind.

“Come along,” she murmured. “Follow me, Zephyr, I’ll take you back to the cathedral. Get you something to eat from the kitchens and decide what to do.” Upon seeing him smile eagerly, she felt the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in a soft smile of her own, but she felt it imperative to stress the importance of what he had done was very wrong. “Be more careful when you’re in the marketplace, boy,” she sighed. “I might not be around to help you get out of a spot of trouble next time. And _don’t_ _steal_ …it’s a quick way to _lose_ the hand that stole.” She paused for effect, hating she had to resort to scare tactics, but if it meant the boy would learn a harsh lesson, then so be it. “You’re lucky you chose Mansart to swipe an apple from. Were it any of the other menfolk here, they’d have cut your hand off.”

_That_ did it. She watched, satisfied and yet not, as the boy’s face rapidly paled and become almost pallid in color as all the blood promptly fled his face. Zephyr nodded, not sure what to say by way of response. When he tried to open his mouth to speak to thank the kind lady for being so generous, all that he managed to gasp out was a breathy little squeak.

Jehan, for his part, stood out in the middle of the streets of the marketplace, a contemplative, thoughtful look brimming in his dark brown irises, awed, and stricken by the beauty of his son’s girl with the orphan boy who he’d paid a handsome amount of coin to steal the apple from Mansart, wanting to see how she would react.

She saw him instantly, her soft smile faltering as the six-year-old boy didn’t hesitate to take her hand and silently allowed her to lead him back to the church, but she paused and looked over her shoulder at Jehan.

In an instant, Madellaine de Barreau’s expression morphed from one of sheer confusion and awe at the fact that she was more or less escorting an orphaned boy with no parents back to the cathedral, not sure what to do with him, to a stoic glare as she looked at Jehan, the fresh memory of his unexpected visit up to Quasi’s tower loft and the almost volatile reaction of her love had towards Jehan last night fresh in her mind, almost burning her retinas as she glowered.

She eyed Jehan suspiciously for what felt like several long minutes. Madellaine’s gaze was only drawn away from Claude Frollo’s younger brother standing in the middle of the street when she felt young Zephyr squeeze onto her hand and shot her a silent, pleading look, wanting her to take him away from the bad man that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand upright when he looked at her.

Madellaine shifted the straps of her linen drawstring sack she wore on her back with the other hand not currently clutching onto Zephyr’s left hand. Madellaine turned on her heels, showing her back to Jehan, and proudly lifted her chin and jutted it out, striding indignantly from where she and Zephyr stood in front of the baker’s shop, leaving the man standing with only the empty pit in his chest and a sense of regret at the pain he’d caused the girl.

His _son_ he didn’t care for, but the young mademoiselle, on the other hand, did not wish to harm her or taint her overall opinion of her this day. Jehan kept his hardened gaze fixated firmly along the slick, wet cobblestone streets at the spot where the young blonde mademoiselle had stood alongside Zephyr only moments ago as she departed.

Once Jehan was able to move again, he strode forward and was surprised to see a single strand of her yellow hair floating that the girl must have shed.

Without even thinking, he plucked it from the air with his strong thumb and forefinger and brought the single strand of the girl’s golden cornflower hair to his nose and sniffed, surprised to find her hair strangely smelled of both pinewood and autumn. His legs moving of their own accord, Jehan broke into a light jog to catch up to Madellaine de Barreau, extending his arm and tapping her elbow.

“Madellaine, milady, _please_ ,” he beseeched her, willing his temper cool at the unpleasant visual image of this young blonde marrying his wretched son. “I must speak with you, it’s urgent, my dear.”

His heart pounded and thrummed against his chest as the words tumbled unchecked from his lips. She bristled, gritting her teeth, and attempted to duck underneath his arm and swerve around him. Jehan darted forward on his heels to counteract her departure. He noticed Zephyr clinging to the back of the skirts of her green linen dress.

“Please,” he continued. “I need to speak to you. About my _son_ ,” he pleaded, unable to keep the note of desperation from seeping its way unbidden to the surface of his voice.

He flinched as the girl startled. Jehan could surely sense the revolt his son’s affianced nursed against him, and he was right in that regard as Madellaine de Barreau stopped dead in her tracks, Zephyr still clutching onto the skirts of her dress as he darted behind her for safety and comfort. Her icy-blue irises ripped through his heart.

“Your _son_?” she challenged hotly, a twisted smirk contorting her beautiful features as Lord Jehan stood rooted to his spot in the midst of the street, silently hoping she would agree to his request. Madellaine inhaled a long, slow breath and was silent for several moments, wanting to collect her thoughts. Her facial expression never wavered from one of a hateful disdain as her eyes made a quick scan of his appearance, scrutinizing everything from the man’s jerkin and his shined, polished boots.

She drew a deep breath, and was silent for a moment, her face never changing from hateful disdain as she looked at Jehan, seemingly searching for the appropriate words to say to Quasi’s father. “There’s no _need_ for your _false_ concern or pity, monsieur, my love wants none of you in his life, sir,” Madellaine hissed at Jehan through gritted teeth, her hand shaking as it held onto the boy’s, though not with fear, Jehan noticed. From ire. “I know that you’re disappointed in Quasimodo. That he is not the son you would have wanted for yourself, but the man is your son, monsieur, like that or not, it rings true.”

The fragmented, shattered pieces of what was left of Jehan’s black, putrid heart promptly crumbled and turned to dust and ashes within the confines of his chest as he could see the hurt and resolution in Madellaine de Barreau’s burning blue eyes, alight with a wave of anger and disappointment he’d never seen.

If she would but let him speak, he could just explain why his son was not an ideal match for her. “Milady, no, that’s not what I…” he started, stricken by the young blonde’s incorrect assumption. Well, no, scratch that. It _was_ correct, in a sense. She was right in that his boy was a disappointment, an accursed wretch from Hell itself.

But he would deal with Quasimodo soon enough. It was the girl that was proving a problem. But Jehan’s voice faltered as his breaths caught in his throat as he could only look at the blonde. He could almost see Madellaine’s resolve crumple as she swallowed the lump in her throat, refusing to let him continue and get a word in at all.

“You don’t need to trouble yourself anymore, Lord Jehan. There is nothing further for you here in Paris. You should go back from whence you came. Your son will never darken your doorstep. We shan’t trouble you,” she did her best to reassure him. “He shall never make any claims upon your family name, your title, or any lands that fall under your rule. We are perfectly content and happy living in the church.”

Madellaine’s jaw was practically like fine-cut steel, as she turned and regarded him with the hatred and contempt of a young woman who needed nothing from anyone as it pertained to her survival. A trait that Jehan admired in the lass, and he thought it would be that much more satisfying when he took her for himself.

In time, she would see the truth, that he was the obvious choice, the right match. Not his accursed whelp of a bastard son.

“Quasi and I shall never ask you for anything, milord,” Madellaine continued to assert as she jutted out her chin slightly defiantly, as though daring Jehan himself to challenge her. She was not afraid to look him squarely in the eye, yet another fine quality in this specimen of woman that Jehan greatly admired. The depths of her anger both aroused the familiar fire within his loins and chilled him at the same time as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood upright upon hearing the girl’s prickly tone.

He parted his lips open slightly to speak, though the only thing that came out was a bunch of strangled attempts at speech as his face flushed a bright crimson red in his mottled, growing anger as she turned her back on him there in the marketplace for the second time in the short time span of five minutes and marched away, one hand curled over the strap of her linen drawstring sack carrying the food she had brought, the other holding the boy’s hand.

Zephyr shot Lord Jehan Frollo a nervous, cautious look over his shoulder, swallowing hard past the lump in his own throat, and quickly turned his head back around, forcing himself to look at the path in front of him. He was glad the pretty lady was taking him to a place where he’d hopefully be safe.

Hopefully, the church wasn’t full of people like the bad man who’d cornered him earlier this morning and shoved a pouchful of coins in his dirtied hands, promising its entire contents was his if he would but steal an apple at the right precise time when a pretty blonde lady was sure to happen on by and see him.

Jehan wasn’t entirely sure what prompted him to ask this one final query of the young mademoiselle now holding steadfast and firm onto the six-year-old blond boy’s hand as their paces quickened, seemingly eager to return to the church as fast as possible, but Jehan asked the question of Lucien Barreau’s youngest child before he could stop it.

“What do you think of me, milady?” he called out, raising his voice just enough so she heard him.

Madellaine froze, not daring to turn around and face Quasimodo’s father as her mind turned over his query, wondering why he would ask such a thing.

Despite herself trying to contain her honesty, she couldn’t. “ _Cruel_ ,” she spat with as much dignity as she could possibly muster, not turning to face him. She saw out of the corner of his eyes, the man was unmoved before Jehan slid out of his leather gloves and turned his back, and began to walk away.

“ _Cruel_ ,” he repeated in a quiet voice as though the word and concept itself had never crossed his mind. “Then perhaps,” he growled, his voice turning dangerously low and quiet as he rolled his neck to crack it and began to walk away from Madellaine and little Zephyr, leaving the two in stunned silence to ponder his words, “I could be _crueler_ to you still, my little dove. You _won’t_ marry my son on Friday, dear, I can promise you that,” he barked in a rough voice.

Madellaine froze, a gasp of surprise and fear escaping her lips. Sudden onset of nausea made her skin crawl and break out into gooseflesh on her neck and arms, despite her arms being covered by the long sleeves of her simple long green linen dress.

There was a horrible, fatigued ringing on her eardrums as the blood pounded and rushed to her head, leaving Lord Jehan Frollo’s last words as he swiftly departed into the streets of the market inaudible. Her brows twitched as she felt a tug of her hand and she looked down her nose at the blond boy whose life she had more or less saved, or at the very least, his left hand from being cut off for stealing.

He was facing her, the six-year-old watching her, teeming with anticipation. “Are you sick, lady?”

“I…” She heard him again this time, but the child’s voice was muffled, as though Zephyr were speaking underwater. She shook her head, beads of sweat beginning to glitter on the front and sides of her temples as they rolled down in smooth tracts.

Gathering enough strength from her throat, she managed to gasp out an answer, “I—I’m _fine_ …”

Though the moment she took a step forward, the boy’s hand slipping from her clammy, shaking fingers as Zephyr staggered backward in alarm, a horrible burning heat began to drag vicious spasms across her body, unrelenting in wave after wave now.

Her vision began to blur at the edges as black dots crept in front of her vision. She could hear the boy shout for an adult to come and help her, and everything in the middle of the bustling marketplace seemed to revolve and spin, sending her stomach into a painful churning lurch until she almost vomited.

She could not even hear her pitiful plea for someone to help her. As she staggered forward, she felt herself collide with something lean and hard. Madellaine blinked rapidly a couple of times to try to rid the spots from her vision, craning her neck upright, and found herself in the arms of Phoebus.

She just wanted it to _stop_.

She opened her mouth to plead with the golden-haired captain to help her, to take her back to the church, to the tower, but she couldn’t even manage that at all.

She was barely aware of Phoebus lifting her in his stronghold, allowing her head to rest against his chiseled chest as she felt herself being moved from the middle of the marketplace, and going in the opposite direction of Notre Dame de Paris. She tried to ask him where the bloody hell Phoebus thought he was taking her now, but then she remembered, he had built a home for himself and Esmeralda in the east, near her old Court of Miracles by the cemetery.

“You’ll be all right, Madellaine, love, I got you, let me take you back home, sweetheart,” Phoebus urged in a surprisingly soothing voice that was unlike the archer and captain of the cathedral guard’s baritone, rather jovial, boisterous voice. Despite his words, it wasn’t enough. A single tear slipped from her eye, though it felt…peaceful.

Madellaine was almost smiling as she allowed Phoebus to care for her, with the young blond boy nervously trailing close behind at the captain’s heels. The last thing she saw was a vision of Quasi’s face, little more than a phantasm in her worried mind, looking at her with no small measure of concern and agitation, but then he smiled at her.

And somehow, though it was just an image her troubled mind had created to ease the burden of whatever sickness she was succumbing to—had she been _poisoned_ somehow, was _that_ it—she knew that everything would turn out all right in the end.

She _felt_ it. It was this thought that gave the girl peace and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed as she slipped into a deep sleep held in Phoebus’s arms.


	12. Call Me Mom

**12**

**QUASI** sped through the cobblestoned streets of the marketplace an hour later, with Esmeralda struggling to keep up with the tall man’s rapid, frantic strides to reach her and Phoebus’s home so that he could be with his sick fiancée.

“Quasi, _wait_!” gasped Esmeralda, panting and heaving to catch her breath, clutching at a stitch in her side, flinging out an arm to steady her uneven, staggering gait against the wall of the baker’s shop nearby where Madellaine had more or less fainted from stress and exhaustion, in order to catch her breath.

Apparently, that was the _wrong_ thing to say to her friend. Esmeralda flinched as the bell ringer’s head whiplashed sharply upward and she shirked away as the shadow of something dark flitted across his somewhat handsome face.

“How can you be so _calm_ about this?” he snapped, his face paling in anger as he straightened his gait and stalked back towards Esmeralda, resting heavily against the wall of the shop.

It took his friend a moment for her to get in a good breath, as ever since the poor man near hysterics had fled his tower when Esmeralda came to tell him where his wife was and what had happened to her in the marketplace, he had more or less sprinted towards her and Phoebus’s home on the outskirts of the city’s limits, not seeming to want to stop for anything.

“Because,” Esmeralda panted, still clutching at her ribcage as she pushed herself off the wall of the baker’s shop, “Madellaine’s life is not in any danger, my friend. There was…”

She hesitated unsure of how much she could reveal to her friend. She had a sinking suspicion she was right on her hunch as to the cause of her friend’s ailment, but she wanted to be absolutely sure. Hearing Quasi draw in a sharp breath while he waited for her to speak, she flinched and quickly brought her attention back to the present matter at hand: calming him down.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Quasi,” she said airily, her tone holding just a hint of finality bordering on indifference. “I’m sure it’s just…pre-wedding nerves,” she said.

Quasi opened his mouth to argue, looking very much like he had more he wanted to say to Esmeralda, though must have thought better of it, thinking it fruitless to squabble like this, when the only thing he wanted was to be by her side.

He offered a curt nod of his head, exhaling a shaking breath through his flaring nostrils and turned away, carding his gloved hands through his red hair and hung his head, a lock of coarse fiery ginger hair falling in front of his one good eye, more or less shielding whatever expression he currently wore from her.

Moved with sympathy and just a little bit of pity, Esmeralda felt her heartstrings give a painful little tug as she stepped forward and set a reassuring hand on the man’s arm.

She gave it a light little squeeze, though Quasi really only reacted when the man heard her soft, husky voice speak.

“She’s just fine. She’s at the house. Awake and resting, she asked to see you, so I came for you, my friend. That’s all.”

Quasi mutely nodded, his lips pursed into a thin line and he rushed forward. Esmeralda heaved a tired groan under her breath and darted after the man, struggling to catch her breath.

The pair of friends did not speak until they reached the small but modest home of Phoebus and Esmeralda de Chateaupers. Notre Dame’s bell ringer barreled through the front door without raising his fist to knock, Esmeralda affectionately noticed as she trailed close behind the man.

Not that he _needed_ to. Both Madellaine and Quasi were welcome in their home anytime they liked. Esmeralda was practically right on her friend’s heels as he expertly navigated his way towards the fireplace, where his wife sat in front of the hearth nursing a mug of chamomile tea clutched in her hands, sitting cross-legged on the bear pelt rug. She was, Esmeralda was relieved to see, looking much better than when she had left Madellaine alone with Phoebus to retrieve Quasi from his loft.

The little blond boy whose life Madellaine had apparently saved was sitting in front of her on the rug, listening animatedly while Madellaine indulged him in his request for a story. She looked up, pausing in the midst of her tale, and smiled warmly at her husband as he practically dropped to his knees in front of her and flung his arms around her neck, catching her off-guard and more than a little bit surprised.

“I’m _fine_ , Quasi,” she squeaked in a breathless sounding voice, quickly setting down her mug of tea so she wouldn’t spill any on her friends’ bear pelt rug. “I just…passed out, I guess,” she said sheepishly, reaching up to tug a lock of her short shaggy blonde hair back behind her ear. “I’m sure it’s just stress, love.”

“A-are you _hurt_?” he stammered sharply, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he pulled back to study his love’s face, holding onto either of her shoulders as his eyes made a quick scan of her.

Madellaine shook her head, pursing her lips into a thin line, keeping her gaze fixated on the young blond boy, Zephyr, who she affectionately noticed didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

“No, but I picked up a new _friend_ this morning in the marketplace, love,” she said gently, reaching out and giving Quasi’s hair a tousle that sent a tremor of pleasure down his spine. “This is Zephyr. I sort of saved him from Monsieur Mansart, the man would have cut off his hand otherwise,” she chuckled darkly, crinkling her nose in disgust. “He’s got no parents, Quasi. No home. I—I wouldn’t feel right in sending him out on the streets. What if we took him in?” she asked Quasi, her blue eyes quite solemn, her expression grim.

“We could care for him, Barreau.” The words left Phoebus’s mouth before they’d totally formed in his mind.

Everyone in the room, Zephyr included, spun around to look at him quizzically. Madellaine’s thin blonde eyebrows rose in alarm and surprise as she looked at Phoebus. Quasi was looking more than a little confused, and Esmeralda wore an odd expression on her face that neither of them knew what to think.

Madellaine wracked her brain over the sensibleness of her decision, thinking of how she had more or less relied on Phoebus now several times in the past and he always came through for her and Quasi, more than a few times by this point.

“ _You_?” Madellaine cocked her head in disbelief and stared incredulously at the golden-haired Sun God and soldier. “What the bloody hell do _you_ know about caring for a child?” she scoffed at Phoebus, hardly daring to believe her hearing.

Phoebus awkwardly shuffled his weight from one foot to the other as he felt Esmeralda nudge beside him, jostling his shoulder as she moved to stand next to her husband in support.

“You could show me how, love,” Phoebus said softly, swiveling his gaze towards Esmeralda, his eyes never leaving her. “What do you say? We’ve talked about being parents, yes?”

Esmeralda squirmed, suddenly agitated. She was clearly uncomfortable at the thought of giving this young boy, this Zephyr, such unrestricted access to her private life with Phoebus. The boy was a common thief, a beggar in the streets, as she herself had been once. He clearly needed a firm hand.

A firm hand that she and Phoebus could undoubtedly provide. That was not necessarily her objection to Phoebus’s offer. She knew they would be exceptional parents to this child.

At that thought, while Quasi and Madellaine rose to their feet and made to head towards the front door, once the bell ringer was satisfied his betrothed wasn’t physically hurt or suffering, the pair paused by the door, waiting to hear Esmeralda’s answer, and she studied her Sun God. His light hazel eyes were sparkling and hopeful. Phoebus almost seemed to be shaking with nervous anticipation, which was admittedly new for him.

Esmeralda wasn’t even aware she had nodded her agreement until Phoebus gave his wife a distant grin and reached down to grasp her hand in his, giving it a squeeze. “It’s settled, then. I’m sure we’ll be wonderful parents, love,” he said.

Quasi and Madellaine shot the married couple caring grins before ducking out and leaving themselves, saying they would stop by for breakfast in the morning to see how the newly adopted parents of the young boy called Zephyr were settling into their new roles. The pair ducked out after bidding the new little family of three a quick farewell.

Suddenly finding themselves alone together, Esmeralda and Phoebus stood in awkward silence for a long moment. The boy hesitated, biting at his bottom lip, and was the first to speak, breaking the silence. He gave a tug on Esmeralda’s skirts of her dress, causing the ebony-haired woman to look down in surprise and alarm.

“What…what should I call you?” the boy asked fearfully.

Esmeralda paused to consider how best to answer his query. A dozen and one possible answers that she could give flitted through the front of her mind, though as she looked into the boy’s pleading eyes and uncertain, apprehensive expression, only one answer came to her mind. The only right answer.

“Mom,” she whispered warmly, kneeling into a crouch and scooping the blond-haired boy that did kind of bear a striking resemblance to her husband up in her arms, smiling at their newly taken-in son in a way that she hoped was genuine. “Call me Mom.”


End file.
